THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BLAZED   TRAIT,  STORIES 

AND 

STORIES  OF  THE  WILD  LIFE 


C 


Garden  City,  New  ^fork 

DOUBLEDAXPAGE  &CQ 

1913 


Copyright  1904,  by 
STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 


Copyright  1899,  1902,  1903,  by  The  S.  S.  McClure  Co.  Copyright  1901,  by  The 
Century  Company.  Copyright  1899,  1900,  by  .].  B.  Lippincott  Company. 
Copyright  1902,  by  Perry  Maton  Company.  Copyright  1901,  by  Truth  Company. 


TS 
3545 


CONTENTS 

PART   I 
BLAZED  TRAIL  STORIES 

PAGE 

THE  RIVERMAN 8 

THE  FOREMAN 22 

THE  SCALER .     .  89 

THE  RivER-Boss 58 

THE  FIFTH  WAY 12 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  WINDS  OF  HEAVEN  88 


PART   II 
STORIES  OF  THE  WILD  LIFE 

THE  GIRL  WHO  GOT  RATTLED Ill    ' 

BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT 182 

THE  Two  CARTRIDGES 158 

THE  RACE 180 

THE  SAVING  GRACE .198 

THE  PROSPECTOR 222 

THE  GIRL  IN  RED   .  .  24-6  •" 


647994 


jiLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 


THE    RIVERMAN 

/ 

I  first  met  him  one  Fourth  of  July  afternoon  in 
the  middle  eighties.  The  sawdust  streets  and 
high  board  sidewalks  of  the  lumber  town  were 
filled  to  the  brim  with  people.  The  permanent 
population,  dressed  in  the  stiffness  of  its  Sunday 
best,  escorted  gingham  wives  or  sweethearts;  a 
dozen  outsiders  like  myself  tried  not  to  be  too 
conspicuous  in  a  city  smartness;  but  the  great 
multitude  was  composed  of  the  men  of  the  woods. 
I  sat,  chair-tilted  by  the  hotel,  watching  them 
pass.  Their  heavy  woollen  shirts  crossed  by  the 
broad  suspenders,  the  red  of  their  sashes  or  leather 
shine  of  their  belts,  their  short  kersey  trousers 
"stagged"  off  to  leave  a  gap  between  the  knee 
and  the  heavily  spiked  "cork  boots" — all  these 
were  distinctive  enough  of  their  class,  but  most 
interesting  to  me  were  the  eyes  that  peered  from 
beneath  their  little  round  hats  tilted  rakishly 
askew.  They  were  all  subtly  alike,  those  eyes. 
Some  were  black,  some  were  brown,  or  gray,  or 


4  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

blue,  but  all  were  steady  and  unabashed,  all 
looked  straight  at  you  with  a  strange  humorous 
blending  of  aggression  and  respect  for  your  own 
business,  and  all  without  exception  wrinkled  at 
the  corners  with  a  suggestion  of  dry  humor.  In 
my  half -conscious  scrutiny  I  probably  stared 
harder  than  I  knew,  for  all  at  once  a  laughing 
pair  of  the  blue  eyes  suddenly  met  mine  full,  and 
an  ironical  voice  drawled, 

"Say,  bub,  you  look  as  interested  as  a  man  kill 
ing  snakes.  Am  I  your  long-lost  friend  ?" 

The  tone  of  the  voice  matched  accurately  the 
attitude  of  the  man,  and  that  was  quite  non-com 
mittal.  He  stood  cheerfully  ready  to  meet  the 
emergency.  If  I  sought  trouble,  it  was  here  to 
my  hand;  or  if  I  needed  help  he  was  willing  to 
offer  it. 

"I  guess  you  are,"  I  replied,  "if  you  can  tell 
me  what  all  this  outfit's  headed  for." 

He  thrust  back  his  hat  and  ran  his  hand 
through  a  mop  of  closely  cropped  light  curls. 

"Birling  match,"  he  explained  briefly.  "Come 
on." 

I  joined  him,  and  together  we  followed  the 
crowd  to  the  river,  where  we  roosted  like  cor 
morants  on  adjacent  piles  overlooking  a  patch  oi 
clear  water  among  the  filled  booms. 


THE   RIVERMAN  5 

"Drive's  just  over,"  my  new  friend  informed 
me.  "Rear  come  down  last  night.  Fourther 
July  celebration.  This  little  town  will  scratch 
fer  th'  tall  timber  along  about  midnight  when 
the  boys  goes  in  to  take  her  apart." 

A  half-dozen  men  with  peavies  rolled  a  white- 
pine  log  of  about  a  foot  and  a  half  diameter  into 
the  clear  water,  where  it  lay  rocking  back  and 
forth,  three  or  four  feet  from  the  boom  piles. 
Suddenly  a  man  ran  the  length  of  the  boom, 
leaped  easily  into  the  air,  and  landed  with  both 
feet  square  on  one  end  of  the  floating  log.  That 
end  disappeared  in  an  ankle -deep  swirl  of  white 
foam,  the  other  rose  suddenly,  the  whole  timber, 
projected  forward  by  the  shock,  drove  headlong 
to  the  middle  of  the  little  pond.  And  the  man, 
his  arms  folded,  his  knees  just  bent  in  the  grace 
ful  nervous  attitude  of  the  circus-rider,  stood  up 
right  like  a  statue  of  bronze. 

A  roar  approved  this  feat. 

"That's  Dickey  Darrell,"  said  my  informant, 
"Roaring  Dick.  He's  hell  and  repeat.  Watch 
him." 

The  man  on  the  log  was  small,  with  clean 
beautiful  haunches  and  shoulders,  but  with  hang 
ing  baboon  arms.  Perhaps  his  most  striking 
feature  was  a  mop  of  reddish-brown  hair  that 


6  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

overshadowed  a  little  triangular  white  face  ac 
cented  by  two  reddish-brown  quadrilaterals  that 
served  as  eyebrows  and  a  pair  of  inscrutable  chip 
munk  eyes. 

For  a  moment  he  poised  erect  in  the  great  calm 
of  the  public  performer.  Then  slowly  he  began 
to  revolve  the  log  under  his  feet.  The  lofty  gaze, 
the  folded  arms,  the  straight  supple  waist  budged 
not  by  a  hair's  breadth ;  only  the  feet  stepped  for 
ward,  at  first  deliberately,  then  faster  and  faster, 
until  the  rolling  log  threw  a  blue  spray  a  foot 
into  the  air.  Then  suddenly  slap!  slap!  the 
heavy  caulks  stamped  a  reversal.  The  log  came 
instantaneously  to  rest,  quivering  exactly  like 
some  animal  that  had  been  spurred  through  its 
paces. 

"Magnificent!"  I  cried. 

"Hell,  that's  nothing!"  my  companion  re 
pressed  me,  "anybody  can  birl  a  log.  Watch 
this." 

Roaring  Dick  for  the  first  time  unfolded  his 
arms.  With  some  appearance  of  caution  he  bal 
anced  his  unstable  footing  into  absolute  immo 
bility.  Then  he  turned  a  somersault. 

This  was  the  real  thing.  My  friend  uttered  a 
wild  yell  of  applause  which  was  lost  in  a  general 
roar. 


THE   RIVERMAN  7 

A  long  pike-pole  shot  out,  bit  the  end  of  the 
timber,  and  towed  it  to  the  boom  pile.  Another 
man  stepped  on  the  log  with  Darrell.  They 
stood  facing  each  other,  bent-kneed,  alert.  Sud 
denly  with  one  accord  they  commenced  to  birl 
the  log  from  left  to  right.  The  pace  grew 
hot.  Like  squirrels  treading  a  cage  their  feet 
twinkled.  Then  it  became  apparent  that  Dar- 
rell's  opponent  was  gradually  being  forced  from 
the  top  of  the  log.  He  could  not  keep  up.  Lit 
tle  by  little,  still  moving  desperately,  he  dropped 
back  to  the  slant,  then  at  last  to  the  edge,  and  so 
off  into  the  river  with  a  mighty  splash. 

"Clean  birled!"  commented  my  friend. 

One  after  another  a  half-dozen  rivermen 
tackled  the  imperturbable  Dick,  but  none  of  them 
possessed  the  agility  to  stay  on  top  in  the  pace  he 
set  them.  One  boy  of  eighteen  seemed  for  a  mo 
ment  to  hold  his  own,  and  managed  at  least  to 
keep  out  of  the  water  even  when  Darrell  had 
apparently  reached  his  maximum  speed.  But 
that  expert  merely  threw  his  entire  weight  into 
two  reversing  stamps  of  his  feet,  and  the  young 
fellow  dove  forward  as  abruptly  as  though  he 
had  been  shied  over  a  horse's  head. 

The  crowd  was  by  now  getting  uproarious  and 
impatient  of  volunteer  effort  to  humble  DarrelTs 


8  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

challenge.  It  wanted  the  best,  and  at  once.  It 
began,  with  increasing  insistence,  to  shout  a 
name. 

"Jimmy  Powers!"  it  vociferated,  "Jimmy 
Powers." 

And  then  by  shamefaced  bashfuiness,  by  pro 
fane  protest,  by  muttered  and  comprehensive 
curses  I  knew  that  my  companion  on  the  other 
pile  was  indicated. 

A  dozen  men  near  at  hand  began  to  shout. 
"Here  he  is!"  they  cried.  "Come  on,  Jimmy." 
"Don't  be  a  high  banker."  "Hang  his  hide  on 
the  fence." 

Jimmy,  still  red  and  swearing,  suffered  him 
self  to  be  pulled  from  his  elevation  and  disap 
peared  in  the  throng.  A  moment  later  I  caught 
his  head  and  shoulders  pushing  toward  the  boom 
piles,  and  so  in  a  moment  he  stepped  warily 
aboard  to  face  his  antagonist. 

This  was  evidently  no  question  to  be  deter 
mined  by  the  simplicity  of  force  or  the  simplicity 
of  a  child's  trick.  The  two  men  stood  half- 
crouched,  face  to  face,  watching  each  other  nar 
rowly,  but  making  no  move.  To  me  they  seemed 
like  two  wrestlers  sparring  for  an  opening. 
Slowly  the  log  revolved  one  way ;  then  slowly  the 
other.  It  was  a  mere  courtesy  of  salute.  All  at 


THE   RIVERMAN  9 

once  Dick  birled  three  rapid  strokes  from  left  to 
right  as  though  about  to  roll  the  log,  leaped  into 
the  air  and  landed  square  with  both  feet  on  the 
other  slant  of  the  timber.  Jimmy  Powers  felt 
the  jar,  and  acknowledged  it  by  the  spasmodic 
jerk  with  which  he  counterbalanced  Darrell's 
weight.  But  he  was  not  thrown. 

As  though  this  daring  and  hazardous  ma 
noeuvre  had  opened  the  combat,  both  men  sprang 
to  life.  Sometimes  the  log  rolled  one  way,  some 
times  the  other,  sometimes  it  jerked  from  side 
to  side  like  a  crazy  thing,  but  always  with  the 
rapidity  of  light,  always  in  a  smother  of  spray 
and  foam.  The  decided  spat,  spat,  spat  of  the 
reversing  blows  from  the  caulked  boots  sounded 
like  picket  firing.  I  could  not  make  out  the 
different  leads,  feints,  parries,  and  counters  of 
this  strange  method  of  boxing,  nor  could  I  dis 
tinguish  to  whose  initiative  the  various  evolutions 
of  that  log  could  be  described.  But  I  retain  still 
a  vivid  mental  picture  of  two  men  nearly  mo 
tionless  above  the  waist,  nearly  vibrant  below  it, 
dominating  the  insane  gyrations  of  a  stick  of 
pine. 

The  crowd  was  appreciative  and  partisan — 
for  Jimmy  Powers.  It  howled  wildly,  and  rose 
thereby  to  ever  higher  excitement.  Then  it  for- 


10  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

got  its  manners  utterly  and  groaned  when  it 
made  out  that  a  sudden  splash  represented  its 
favourite,  while  the  indomitable  Darrell  still  trod 
the  quarter-deck  as  champion  birler  for  the  year. 

I  must  confess  I  was  as  sorry  as  anybody.  I 
climbed  down  from  my  cormorant  roost,  and 
picked  my  way  between  the  alleys  of  aromatic 
piled  lumber  in  order  to  avoid  the  press,  and 
cursed  the  little  gods  heartily  for  undue  partiality 
in  the  wrong  direction.  In  this  manner  I  hap 
pened  on  Jimmy  Powers  himself  seated  drip 
ping  on  a  board  and  examining  his  bared  foot. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  I  behind  him.  "How  did  he 
do  it?" 

He  whirled,  and  I  could  see  that  his  laughing 
boyish  face  had  become  suddenly  grim  and  stern, 
and  that  his  eyes  were  shot  with  blood. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  growled  disparagingly. 
"Well,  that's  how  he  did  it." 

He  held  out  his  foot.  Across  the  instep  and 
at  the  base  of  the  toes  ran  two  rows  of  tiny  round 
punctures  from  which  the  blood  was  oozing.  I 
looked  very  inquiring. 

"He  corked  me!"  Jimmy  Powers  explained. 
"Jammed  his  spikes  into  me!  Stepped  on  my 

foot  and  tripped  me,  the "  Jimmy  Powers 

certainly  could  swear. 


THE   RI  VERM  AN  11 

"Why  didn't  you  make  a  kick?"  I  cried. 

"That  ain't  how  I  do  it,"  he  muttered,  pulling 
on  his  heavy  woollen  sock. 

"But  no,"  I  insisted,  my  indignation  mount 
ing.  "It's  an  outrage!  That  crowd  was  with 
you.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to  say  some 
thing " 

He  cut  me  short.  "And  give  myself  away  as 
a  damn  fool — sure  Mike.  I  ought  to  know 
Dickey  Darrell  by  this  time,  and  I  ought  to 
be  big  enough  to  take  care  of  myself."  He 
stamped  his  foot  into  his  driver's  shoe  and  took 
me  by  the  arm,  his  good  humour  apparently  re 
stored.  "No,  don't  you  lose  any  hair,  bub;  I'll 
get  even  with  Roaring  Dick." 

That  night,  having  by  the  advice  of  the  pro 
prietor  moved  my  bureau  and  trunk  against  the 
bedroom  door,  I  lay  wide  awake  listening  to  the 
taking  of  the  town  apart.  At  each  especially 
vicious  crash  I  wondered  if  that  might  be  Jimmy 
Powers  getting  even  with  Roaring  Dick. 

The  following  year,  but  earlier  in  the  season, 
I  again  visited  my  little  lumber  town.  In  strik 
ing  contrast  to  the  life  of  that  other  midsummer 
day  were  the  deserted  streets.  The  landlord 
knew  me,  and  after  I  had  washed  and  eaten  ap 
proached  me  with  a  suggestion. 


12  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

"You  got  all  day  in  front  of  you,"  said  he; 
"why  don't  you  take  a  horse  and  buggy  and  make 
a  visit  to  the  big  jam?  Everybody's  up  there 
more  or  less." 

In  response  to  my  inquiry,  he  replied: 

"They've  jammed  at  the  upper  bend,  jammed 
bad.  The  crew's  been  picking  at  her  for  near  a 
week  now,  and  last  night  Darrell  was  down  to  see 
about  some  more  dynamite.  It's  worth  seein'. 
The  breast  of  her  is  near  thirty  foot  high,  and 
lots  of  water  in  the  river." 

"Darrell?"  said  I,  catching  at  the  name. 

"Yes.  He's  rear  boss  this  year.  Do  you 
think  you'd  like  to  take  a  look  at  her?" 

"I  think  I  should,"  I  assented. 

The  horse  and  I  jogged  slowly  along  a  deep 
sand  road,  through  wastes  of  pine  stumps  and 
belts  of  hardwood  beautiful  with  the  early 
spring,  until  finally  we  arrived  at  a  clearing  in 
which  stood  two  huge  tents,  a  mammoth  kettle 
slung  over  a  fire  of  logs,  and  drying  racks  about 
the  timbers  of  another  fire.  A  fat  cook  in  the 
inevitable  battered  derby  hat,  two  bare-armed 
cookees,  and  a  chore  "boy"  of  seventy-odd  sum 
mers  were  the  only  human  beings  in  sight.  One 
of  the  cookees  agreed  to  keep  an  eye  on  my 
horse.  I  picked  my  way  down  a  well-worn  trail 


THE   RIVERMAN  18 

toward  the  regular  clank,  clank,  click  of  the 
peavies. 

I  emerged  finally  to  a  plateau  elevated  some 
fifty  or  sixty  feet  above  the  river.  A  half-dozen 
spectators  were  already  gathered.  Among 
them  I  could  not  but  notice  a  tall,  spare,  broad- 
shouldered  young  fellow  dressed  in  a  quiet  busi 
ness  suit,  somewhat  wrinkled,  whose  square, 
strong,  clean-cut  face  and  muscular  hands  were 
tanned  by  the  weather  to  a  dark  umber-brown. 
In  another  moment  I  looked  down  on  the 
jam. 

The  breast,  as  my  landlord  had  told  me,  rose 
sheer  from  the  water  to  the  height  of  at  least 
twenty-five  feet,  bristling  and  formidable.  Back 
of  it  pressed  the  volume  of  logs  packed  closely 
in  an  apparently  inextricable  tangle  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  A  man  near  informed  me  that 
the  tail  was  a  good  three  miles  up  stream.  From 
beneath  this  wonderful  chevaux  de  frise  foamed 
the  current  of  the  river,  irresistible  to  any  force 
less  mighty  than  the  statics  of  such  a  mass. 

A  crew  of  forty  or  fifty  men  were  at  work. 
They  clamped  their  peavies  to  the  reluctant  tim 
bers,  heaved,  pushed,  slid,  and  rolled  them  one 
by  one  into  the  current,  where  they  were  caught 
and  borne  away.  They  had  been  doing  this  for 


14  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

a  week.  As  yet  their  efforts  had  made  but  slight 
impression  on  the  bulk  of  the  jam,  but  some  time, 
with  patience,  they  would  reach  the  key-logs. 
Then  the  tangle  would  melt  like  sugar  in  the 
freshet,  and  these  imperturbable  workers  would 
have  to  escape  suddenly  over  the  plunging  logs 
to  shore. 

My  eye  ranged  over  the  men,  and  finally 
rested  on  Dickey  Darrell.  He  was  standing  on 
the  slanting  end  of  an  upheaved  log  dominating 
the  scene.  His  little  triangular  face  with  the 
accents  of  the  quadrilateral  eyebrows  was  pale 
with  the  blaze  of  his  energy,  and  his  chipmunk 
eyes  seemed  to  flame  with  a  dynamic  vehemence 
that  caused  those  on  whom  their  glance  fell  to 
jump  as  though  they  had  been  touched  with  a 
hot  poker.  I  had  heard  more  of  Dickey  Dar 
rell  since  my  last  visit,  and  was  glad  of  the  chance 
to  observe  Morrison  &  Daly's  best  "driver"  at 
work. 

The  jam  seemed  on  the  very  edge  of  break 
ing.  After  half  an  hour's  strained  expectation 
it  seemed  still  on  the  very  edge  of  breaking.  So 
I  sat  down  on  a  stump.  Then  for  the  first  time 
I  noticed  another  acquaintance,  handling  his 
peavie  near  the  very  person  of  the  rear  boss. 

"Hullo,"  said  I  to  myself,  "that's  funny.     I 


THE   RIVERMAN  15 

wonder  if  Jimmy  Powers  got  even;  and  if  so, 
why  he  is  working  so  amicably  and  so  near  Roar 
ing  Dick." 

At  noon  the  men  came  ashore  for  dinner.  I 
paid  a  quarter  into  the  cook's  private  exchequer 
and  so  was  fed.  After  the  meal  I  approached 
my  acquaintance  of  the  year  before. 

"Hello,  Powers,"  I  greeted  him,  "I  suppose 
you  don't  remember  me?" 

"Sure,"  he  responded  heartily.  "Ain't  you  a 
little  early  this  year?" 

"No,"  I  disclaimed,  "this  is  a  better  sight  than 
a  birling  match." 

I  offered  him  a  cigar,  which  he  immediately 
substituted  for  his  corn-cob  pipe.  We  sat  at 
the  root  of  a  tree. 

"It'll  be  a  great  sight  when  that  jam  pulls,'* 
said  I. 

"You  bet,"  he  replied,  "but  she's  a  teaser. 
Even  old  Tim  Shearer  would  have  a  picnic  to 
make  out  just  where  the  key-logs  are.  We've 
started  her  three  times,  but  she's  plugged  tight 
every  trip.  Likely  to  pull  almost  any  time." 

We  discussed  various  topics.  Finally  I  ven 
tured: 

"I  see  your  old  friend  Darrell  is  rear  boss." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jimmy  Powers,  dryly. 


16  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

"By  the  way,  did  you  fellows  ever  square  up 
on  that  birling  match?" 

"No,"  said  Jimmy  Powers;  then  after  an  in 
stant,  "Not  yet." 

I  glanced  at  him  to  recognise  the  square  set 
to  the  jaw  that  had  impressed  me  so  formidably 
the  year  before.  And  again  his  face  relaxed 
almost  quizzically  as  he  caught  sight  of  mine. 

"Bub,"  said  he,  getting  to  his  feet,  "those  little 
marks  are  on  my  foot  yet.  And  just  you  tie  into 
one  idea:  Dickey  Darrell's  got  it  coming."  His 
face  darkened  with  a  swift  anger.  "God  damn 
his  soul!"  he  said,  deliberately.  It  was  no  mere 
profanity.  It  was  an  imprecation,  and  in  its 
very  deliberation  I  glimpsed  the  flare  of  an  un 
dying  hate. 

About  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  Jimmy's 
prediction  was  fulfilled.  Without  the  slightest 
warning  the  jam  "pulled."  Usually  certain 
premonitory  cracks,  certain  sinkings  down, 
groanings  forward,  grumblings,  shruggings,  and 
sullen,  reluctant  shif tings  of  the  logs  give  op 
portunity  for  the  men  to  assure  their  safety. 
This  jam,  after  inexplicably  hanging  fire  for  a 
week,  as  inexplicably  started  like  a  sprinter 
almost  into  its  full  gait.  The  first  few  tiers  top 
pled  smash  into  the  current,  raising  a  watersoout 


THE   RIVERMAN  17 

like  that  made  by  a  dynamite  explosion ;  the  mass 
behind  plunged  forward  blindly,  rising  and  fall 
ing  as  the  integral  logs  were  up-ended,  turned 
over,  thrust  one  side,  or  forced  bodily  into  the 
air  by  the  mighty  power  playing  jack-straws 
with  them. 

The  rivermen,  though  caught  unaware,  reached 
either  bank.  They  held  their  peavies  across  their 
bodies  as  balancing-poles,  and  zig-zagged  ashore 
with  a  calmness  and  lack  of  haste  that  were  in 
reality  only  an  indication  of  the  keenness  with 
which  they  fore-estimated  each  chance.  Long 
experience  with  the  ways  of  saw-logs  brought 
them  out.  They  knew  the  correlation  of  these 
many  forces  just  as  the  expert  billiard-player 
knows  instinctively  the  various  angles  of  inci 
dent  and  reflection  between  his  cue-ball  and  its 
mark.  Consequently  they  avoided  the  centres 
of  eruption,  paused  on  the  spots  steadied  for  the 
moment,  dodged  moving  logs,  trod  those  not  yet 
under  way,  and  so  arrived  on  solid  ground.  The 
jam  itself  started  with  every  indication  of  mean 
ing  business,  gained  momentum  for  a  hundred 
feet,  and  then  plugged  to  a  standstill.  The 
"break"  was  abortive. 

Now  we  all  had  leisure  to  notice  two  things. 
First,  the  movement  had  not  been  of  the  whole 


18  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

jam,  as  we  had  at  first  supposed,  but  only  of  a 
block  or  section  of  it  twenty  rods  or  so  in  extent. 
Thus  between  the  part  that  had  moved  and  the 
greater  bulk  that  had  not  stirred  lay  a  hundred 
feet  of  open  water  in  which  floated  a  number  of 
loose  logs.  The  second  fact  was,  that  Dickey 
Darrell  had  fallen  into  that  open  stretch  of  water 
and  was  in  the  act  of  swimming  toward  one  of 
the  floating  logs.  That  much  we  were  given 
just  time  to  appreciate  thoroughly.  Then  the 
other  section  of  the  jam  rumbled  and  began  to 
break.  Roaring  Dick  was  caught  between  two 
gigantic  millstones  moving  to  crush  him  out  of 
sight. 

An  active  figure  darted  down  the  tail  of  the 
first  section,  out  over  the  floating  logs,  seized 
Darrell  by  the  coat-collar,  and  so  burdened  be 
gan  desperately  to  scale  the  very  face  of  the 
breaking  jam. 

Never  was  a  more  magnificent  rescue.  The 
logs  were  rolling,  falling,  diving  against  the 
laden  man.  He  climbed  as  over  a  treadmill,  a 
treadmill  whose  speed  was  constantly  increasing. 
And  when  he  finally  gained  the  top,  it  was  as 
the  gap  closed  splintering  beneath  him  and  the 
man  he  had  saved. 

It  is  not  in  the  woodsman  to  be  demonstrative 


THE   BIYERMAN  19 

at  any  time,  but  here  was  work  demanding  atten 
tion.  Without  a  pause  for  breath  or  congratu 
lation  they  turned  to  the  necessity  of  the  mo 
ment.  The  jam,  the  whole  jam,  was  moving  at 
last.  Jimmy  Powers  ran  ashore  for  his  peavie. 
Roaring  Dick,  like  a  demon  incarnate,  threw 
himself  into  the  work.  Forty  men  attacked  the 
jam  at  a  dozen  places,  encouraging  the  move 
ment,  twisting  aside  the  timbers  that  threatened 
to  lock  anew,  directing  pigmy-like  the  titanic 
forces  into  the  channel  of  their  efficiency.  Roar 
ing  like  wild  cattle  the  logs  swept  by,  at  first 
slowly,  then  with  the  railroad  rush  of  the  curbed 
freshet.  Men  were  everywhere,  taking  chances, 
like  cowboys  before  the  stampeded  herd.  And 
so,  out  of  sight  around  the  lower  bend  swept  the 
front  of  the  jam  in  a  swirl  of  glory,  the  river- 
men  riding  the  great  boom  back  of  the  creature 
they  subdued,  until  at  last,  with  the  slackening 
current,  the  logs  floated  by  free,  cannoning  with 
hollow  sound  one  against  the  other.  A  half- 
dozen  watchers,  leaning  statuesquely  on  the 
shafts  of  their  peavies,  watched  the  ordered  ranks 
pass  by. 

One  by  one  the  spectators  departed.  At  last 
only  myself  and  the  brown-faced  young  man 
remained.  He  sat  on  a  stump,  staring  with. 


20  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

sightless  eyes  into  vacancy.  I  did  not  disturb 
his  thoughts. 

The  sun  dipped.  A  cool  breeze  of  evening 
sucked  up  the  river.  Over  near  the  cook-camp 
a  big  fire  commenced  to  crackle  by  the  drying 
frames.  At  dusk  the  rivermen  straggled  in 
from  the  down-river  trail. 

The  brown-faced  young  man  arose  and  went 
to  meet  them.  I  saw  him  return  in  close  con 
versation  with  Jimmy  Powers.  Before  they 
reached  us  he  had  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of 
farewell. 

Jimmy  Powers  stood  looking  after  him  long 
after  his  form  had  disappeared,  and  indeed  even 
after  the  sound  of  his  wheels  had  died  toward 
town.  As  I  approached,  the  riverman  turned  to 
me  a  face  from  which  the  reckless,  contained 
self-reliance  of  the  woods-worker  had  faded. 
It  was  wide-eyed  with  an  almost  awe-stricken 
wonder  and  adoration. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  is?"  he  asked  me  in 
a  hushed  voice.  "That's  Thorpe,  Harry  Thorpe. 
And  do  you  know  what  he  said  to  me  just  now, 
me?  Pie  told  me  he  wanted  me  to  work  in  Camp 
One  next  winter,  Thorpe's  One.  And  he  told 
me  I  was  the  first  man  he  ever  hired  straight  into 
One." 


THE   RIVERMAN  21 

His  breath  caught  with  something  like  a  sob. 

I  had  heard  of  the  man  and  of  his  methods. 
I  knew  he  had  made  it  a  practice  of  recruiting  for 
his  prize  camp  only  from  the  employees  of  his 
other  camps,  that,  as  Jimmy  said,  he  never  "hired 
straight  into  One."  I  had  heard,  too,  of  his 
reputation  among  his  own  and  other  woodsmen. 
But  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  come  into 
personal  contact  with  his  influence.  It  impressed 
me  the  more  in  that  I  had  come  to  know  Jimmy 
Powers  and  his  kind. 

"You  deserve  it,  every  bit,"  said  I.  "I'm  not 
going  to  call  you  a  hero,  because  that  would 
make  you  tired.  What  you  did  this  afternoon 
showed  nerve.  It  was  a  brave  act.  But  it  was 
a  better  act  because  you  rescued  your  enemy,  be 
cause  you  forgot  everything  but  your  common 
humanity  when  danger " 

I  broke  off.  Jimmy  was  again  looking  at  me 
with  his  ironically  quizzical  grin. 

"Bub,"  said  he,  "if  you're  going  to  hang  any 
stars  of  Bethlehem  on  my  Christmas  tree,  just 
call  a  halt  right  here.  I  didn't  rescue  that  scala 
wag  because  I  had  any  Christian  sentiments, 
nary  bit.  I  was  just  naturally  savin'  him  for 
the  birling  match  next  Fourther  July." 


II 

THE    FOREMAN 

A  man  is  one  thing:  a  man  plus  his  work  is 
another,  entirely  different.  You  can  learn  this 
anywhere,  but  in  the  lumber  woods  best  of  all. 

Especially  is  it  true  of  the  camp  boss,  the  fore 
man.  A  firm  that  knows  its  business  knows 
this,  and  so  never  considers  merely  what  sort  of 
a  character  a  candidate  may  bear  in  town.  He 
may  drink  or  abstain,  may  exhibit  bravery  or 
cowardice,  strength  or  weakness — it  is  all  one 
to  the  lumbermen  who  employ  him.  In  the 
woods  his  quality  must  appear. 

So  often  the  man  most  efficient  and  trusted 
in  the  especial  environment  of  his  work  is  the 
most  disreputable  outside  it.  The  mere  digni 
fying  quality  of  labour  raises  his  value  to  the 
nth  power.  In  it  he  discovers  the  self-respect 
which,  in  one  form  or  another,  is  absolutely  neces 
sary  to  the  man  who  counts.  His  resolution  to 

22 


THE   FOREMAN  23 

succeed  has  back  of  it  this  necessity  of  self- 
respect,  and  so  is  invincible.  A  good  boss  gives 
back  before  nothing  which  will  further  his  job. 

Most  people  in  the  North  Country  understand 
this  double  standard;  but  occasionally  someone, 
either  stupid  or  inexperienced  or  unobservant, 
makes  the  mistake  of  concluding  that  the  town- 
character  and  the  woods-character  are  necessarily 
the  same.  If  he  acts  in  accordance  with  that 
erroneous  idea,  he  gets  into  trouble.  Take  the 
case  of  Silver  Jack  and  the  walking  boss  of  Mor 
rison  &  Daly,  for  instance.  Silver  Jack  imag 
ined  his  first  encounter  with  Richard  Darrell  in 
Bay  City  indicated  the  certainty  of  like  results 
to  his  second  encounter  with  that  individual  in 
Camp  Thirty.  His  mistake  was  costly;  but  al 
most  anybody  could  have  told  him  better.  To 
understand  the  case,  you  must  first  meet  Rich 
ard  Darrell. 

The  latter  was  a  man  about  five  feet  six  inches 
in  height,  slenderly  built,  yet  with  broad,  hang 
ing  shoulders.  His  face  was  an  exact  triangle, 
beginning  with  a  mop  of  red-brown  hair,  and 
ending  with  a  pointed  chin.  Two  level  quadri 
laterals  served  him  as  eyebrows,  beneath  which  a 
strong  hooked  nose  separated  his  round,  brown, 
chipmunk's  eyes.  When  he  walked,  he  threw 


24  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

his  heavy  shoulders  slightly  forward.  This,  in 
turn,  projected  his  eager,  nervous  countenance. 
The  fact  that  he  was  accustomed  to  hold  his 
hands  half  open,  with  the  palms  square  to  the 
rear,  lent  him  a  peculiarly  ready  and  truculent 
air.  His  name,  as  has  been  said,  was  Richard 
Darrell;  but  men  called  him  Roaring  Dick. 

For  upward  of  fifteen  years  he  had  been 
woods  foreman  for  Morrison  &  Daly,  the  great 
lumber  firm  of  the  Beeson  Lake  district.  That 
would  make  him  about  thirty-eight  years  old. 
He  did  not  look  it.  His  firm  thought  everything 
of  him  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  reputation 
made  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  hire  men  for  his 
camps.  He  had  the  name  of  a  "driver."  But 
this  little  man,  in  some  mysterious  way  of  his 
own,  could  get  in  the  logs.  There  was  none  like 
him.  About  once  in  three  months  he  would  sud 
denly  appear,  worn  and  haggard,  at  Beeson 
Lake,  where  he  would  drop  into  an  iron  bed, 
which  the  Company  maintained  for  that  especial 
purpose.  Tim  Brady,  the  care-taker,  would 
bring  him  food  at  stated  intervals.  After  four 
days  of  this,  he  would  as  suddenly  disappear  into 
the  forest,  again  charged  with  the  vital,  restless 
energy  which  kept  him  on  his  feet  fourteen  hours 
a  day  until  the  next  break  down.  When  he 


THE   FOREMAN  25 

looked  directly  at  you,  this  nerve-force  seemed 
to  communicate  itself  to  you  with  the  physical 
shock  of  an  impact. 

Richard  Darrell  usually  finished  banking  his 
season's  cut  a  month  earlier  than  anybody  else. 
Then  he  drew  his  pay  at  Beeson  Lake,  took  the 
train  for  Bay  City,  and  set  out  to  have  a  good 
time.  Whiskey  was  its  main  element.  On  his 
intensely  nervous  organisation  it  acted  like 
poison.  He  would  do  the  wildest  things.  After 
his  money  was  all  spent,  he  started  up  river  for 
the  log-drive,  hollow-eyed,  shaking.  In  twenty- 
four  hours  he  was  himself  again,  dominant, 
truculent,  fixing  his  brown  chipmunk  eyes  on 
the  delinquents  with  the  physical  shock  of  an 
impact,  coolly  balancing  beneath  the  imminent 
ruin  of  a  jam. 

Silver  Jack,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  nervous 
at  all,  but  very  tall  and  strong,  with  bronze-red 
skin,  and  flaxen  white  hair,  mustache  and  eye 
brows.  The  latter  peculiarity  earned  him  his 
nickname.  He  was  at  all  times  absolutely  fear 
less  and  self-reliant  in  regard  to  material  condi 
tions,  but  singularly  unobservant  and  stupid 
when  it  was  a  question  of  psychology.  He  had 
been  a  sawyer  in  his  early  experience,  but  later 
became  a  bartender  in  Muskegon.  He  was  in 


26  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

general  a  good-humoured  animal  enough,  but 
fond  of  a  swagger,  given  to  showing  off,  and 
exceedingly  ugly  when  his  passions  were  aroused. 

His  first  hard  work,  after  arriving  in  Bay 
City,  was,  of  course,  to  visit  the  saloons.  In  one 
of  these  he  came  upon  Richard  Darrell.  The 
latter  was  enjoying  himself  noisily  by  throwing 
wine-glasses  at  a  beer  advertisement.  As  he 
always  paid  liberally  for  the  glasses,  no  one 
thought  of  objecting. 

'  Who's  th'  bucko?"  inquired  Silver  Jack  of  a 
man  near  the  stove. 

"That's  Roaring  Dick  Darrell,  walkin'  boss 
for  M.  &  D.,"  replied  the  other. 

Silver  Jack  drew  his  flax-white  eyebrows  to 
gether. 

"Roaring  Dick,  eh?  Roaring  Dick?  Fine 
name  fer  a  bad  man.  I  s'pose  he  thinks  he's 
perticular  all  hell,  don't  he?" 

"I  do'no.  Guess  he  is.  He's  got  th'  name 
fer  it." 

"Well,"  said  Silver  Jack,  drawing  his  power 
ful  back  into  a  bow,  "I  ain't  much;  but  I  don't 
like  noise — 'specially  roaring." 

With  the  words  he  walked  directly  across  the 
saloon  to  the  foreman. 

"My  name  is  Silver  Jack,"  said  he,  "I  come 


THE   FOREMAN  27 

from  Muskegon  way.  I  don't  like  noise.  Quit 
it/' 

"All  right,"  replied  Dick. 

The  other  was  astonished.  Then  he  recovered 
his  swagger  and  went  on: 

"They  tell  me  you're  the  old  he-coon  of  this 
neck  of  th'  woods.  P'r'aps  you  were.  But  I'm 
here  now.  Ketch  on?  I'm  th'  boss  of  this  she 
bang  now." 

Dick  smiled  amiably.  "All  right,"  he  re 
peated. 

This  second  acquiescence  nonplussed  the  new 
comer.  But  he  insisted  on  his  fight. 

"You're  a  bluff!"  said  he,  insultingly. 

"Ah!  go  to  hell!"  replied  Dick  with  disgust. 

"What's  that?"  shouted  the  stranger,  tower 
ing  with  threatening  bulk  over  the  smaller  man. 

And  then  to  his  surprise  Dick  Darrell  began 
to  beg. 

"Don't  you  hit  me!"  he  cried,  "I  ain't  don^ 
nothing  to  you.  You  let  me  alone!  Don't  you 
let  him  touch  me!"  he  called  beseechingly  to  the 
barkeeper.  "I  don't  want  to  get  hurt.  Stop  it! 
Let  me  be!" 

Silver  Jack  took  Richard  Darrell  by  the  CO^»T 
and  propelled  him  rapidly  to  the  door.  The 
foreman  hung  back  like  a  small  boy  in  the  grasp 


28  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

of  a  schoolmaster,  whining,  beseeching,  squirm 
ing,  appealing  for  help  to  the  barkeeper  and  the 
bystanders.  When  finally  he  was  energetically 
kicked  into  the  gutter,  he  wept  a  little  with 
nervous  rage. 

"Roaring  Dick!  Rats!"  said  Silver  Jack. 
"Anybody  can  do  him  proper.  If  that's  your 
'knocker,'  you're  a  gang  of  high  bankers." 

The  other  men  merely  smiled  in  the  manner 
of  those  who  know.  Incidentally  Silver  Jack 
was  desperately  pounded  by  Big  Dan,  later  in 
the  evening,  on  account  of  that  "high-banker" 
remark. 

Richard  Darrell,  soon  after,  went  into  the 
woods  with  his  crew,  and  began  the  tremendous 
struggle  against  the  wilderness.  Silver  Jack 
and  Big  Dan  took  up  the  saloon  business  at 
Beeson  Lake,  and  set  themselves  to  gathering  a 
clientele  which  should  do  them  credit. 

The  winter  was  a  bad  one  for  everybody. 
Deep  snows  put  the  job  behind;  frequent  storms 
undid  the  work  of  an  infinitely  ^slow  patience. 
When  the  logging  roads  were  cut  through,  the 
ground  failed  to  freeze  because  of  the  thick  white 
covering  that  overlaid  it.  Darrell  in  his  myste 
rious  compelling  fashion  managed  somehow. 
Everywhere  his  thin  eager  triangle  of  a  face  with 


THE   FOREMAN  29 

the  brown  chipmunk  eyes  was  seen,  bullying  the 
men  into  titanic  exertions  by  the  mere  shock  of 
his  nervous  force.  Over  the  thin  crust  of  ice 
cautious  loads  of  a  few  thousand  feet  were  drawn 
to  the  banks  of  the  river.  The  road-bed  held. 
Gradually  it  hardened  and  thickened.  The  size 
of  the  loads  increased.  Finally  Billy  O'Brien 
drew  up  triumphantly  at  the  rollway. 

"There's  a  rim-racker!"  he  exclaimed.  "Give 
her  all  she'll  stand,  Jimmy." 

Jimmy  Hall,  the  sealer,  laid  his  flexible  rule 
over  the  face  of  each  log.  The  men  gathered, 
interested  in  this  record  load. 

"Thirteen  thousand  two  hundred  and  forty," 
announced  the  sealer  at  last. 

"Whoopee!"  crowed  Billy  O'Brien,  "that'll 
lay  out  Rollway  Charley  by  two  thousand  feet!" 

The  men  congratulated  him  on  his  victory  over 
the  other  teamster,  Rollway  Charley.  Sud 
denly  Darrell  was  among  them,  eager,  menacing, 
thrusting  his  nervous  face  and  heavy  shoulders 
here  and  there  in  the  crowd,  bullying  them  back 
to  the  work  which  they  were  neglecting.  When 
his  back  was  turned  they  grumbled  at  him  sav 
agely,  threatening  to  disobey,  resolving  to  quit. 
Some  of  them  did  quit:  but  none  of  them  dis 
obeyed. 


30  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

Now  the  big  loads  were  coming  in  regularly, 
and  the  railways  became  choked  with  the  logs 
Idumped  down  on  them  from  the  sleighs.  There 
were  not  enough  men  to  roll  them  down  to  the 
river,  nor  to  "deck"  them  there  in  piles.  Work 
accumulated.  The  cant -hook  men  became  dis 
couraged.  What  was  the  use  of  trying?  They 
might  as  well  take  it  easy.  They  did  take  it 
easy.  As  a  consequence  the  teamsters  had  often 
to  wait  two,  three  hours  to  be  unloaded.  They 
were  out  until  long  after  dark,  feeling  their  way 
homeward  through  hunger  and  cold. 

Dick  Darrell,  walking  boss  of  all  the  camps, 
did  the  best  he  could.  He  sent  message  after 
message  to  Beeson  Lake  demanding  more  men. 
If  the  railways  could  be  definitely  cleared  once, 
the  work  would  lighten  all  along  the  line.  Then 
the  men  would  regain  their  content.  More  help 
was  promised,  but  it  was  slow  in  coming.  The 
balance  hung  trembling.  At  any  moment  the 
foreman  expected  the  crisis,  when  the  men,  dis 
couraged  by  the  accumulation  of  work,  would 
begin  to  "jump,"  would  ask  for  their  "time"  and 
quit,  leaving  the  job  half  finished  in  the  woods. 
This  catastrophe  must  not  happen.  Darrell 
himself  worked  like  a  demon  until  dark,  and 
(then,  ten  to  one,  while  the  other  men  rested, 


THE   FOREMAN  31 

would  strike  feverishly  across  to  Camp  Twenty- 
eight  or  Camp  Forty,  where  he  would  consult 
with  Morgan  or  Scotty  Parsons  until  far  into 
the  night.  His  pale,  triangular  face  showed  the 
white  lines  of  exhaustion,  but  his  chipmunk  eyes 
and  his  eager  movements  told  of  a  determination 
stronger  than  any  protests  of  a  mere  nature. 

Now  fate  ordained  that  Silver  Jack  for  the 
purposes  of  his  enlightenment  should  select  just 
this  moment  to  drum  up  trade.  He  was,  in  his 
way,  as  anxious  to  induce  the  men  to  come  out 
of  the  woods  as  Richard  Darrell  was  to  keep 
them  in.  Beeson  Lake  at  this  time  of  year  was 
very  dull.  Only  a  few  chronic  loafers,  without 
money,  ornamented  the  saloon  walls.  On  the 
other  hand,  at  the  four  camps  of  Morrison  & 
Daly  were  three  hundred  men  each  with  four 
months'  pay  coming  to  him.  In  the  ordinary 
course  of  events  these  men  would  not  be  out  for 
sixty  days  yet,  but  Silver  Jack  and  Big  Dan 
perfectly  well  knew  that  it  only  needed  the  sug 
gestion,  the  temptation,  to  arouse  the  spirit  of 
restlessness.  That  a  taste  or  so  of  whiskey  will 
shiver  the  patience  of  men  oppressed  by  long 
monotony  is  as  A  B  C  to  the  north-country  sa 
loon-keeper.  Silver  Jack  resolved  to  make  the 
rounds  of  the  camps  sure  that  the  investment  of 


32  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

a  few  jugs  of  whiskey  would  bring  down  to  Bee- 
son  Lake  at  least  thirty  or  forty  woods-wearied 
men. 

Accordingly  he  donned  many  clothes,  and 
drove  out  into  the  wilderness  a  cutter  containing 
three  jugs  and  some  cigars  in  boxes.  He  an 
ticipated  trouble.  Perhaps  he  would  even  have 
to  lurk  in  the  woods,  awaiting  his  opportunity  to 
smuggle  his  liquor  to  the  men. 

However,  luck  favoured  him.  At  Camp 
Twenty-eight  he  was  able  to  dodge  unseen  into 
the  men's  camp.  When  Morgan,  the  camp 
foreman,  finally  discovered  his  presence,  the 
mischief  had  been  done.  Everybody  was  smok 
ing  cigars,  everybody  was  happily  conscious  of 
a  warm  glow  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  every 
body  was  firmly  convinced  that  Silver  Jack  was 
the  best  fellow  on  earth.  Morgan  could  do 
nothing.  An  attempt  to  eject  Silver  Jack,  an 
expostulation  even,  would,  he  knew,  lose  him  his 
entire  crew.  The  men,  their  heads  whirling  with 
the  anticipated  delights  of  a  spree,  would  indig 
nantly  champion  their  new  friend.  Morgan  re 
tired  grimly  to  the  "office."  There,  the  next 
morning,  he  silently  made  out  the  "time"  of  six 
men,  who  had  decided  to  quit.  He  wondered 
what  would  become  of  the  rollways. 


THE   FOREMAN  33 

Silver  Jack,  for  the  sake  of  companionship, 
took  one  of  the  "jumpers"  in  the  cutter  with 
him.  He  was  pleased  over  his  success,  and  in 
tended  now  to  try  Camp  Thirty,  Darrell's  head 
quarters.  In  regard  to  Morgan  he  had  been 
somewhat  uneasy,  for  he  had  never  encountered 
that  individual;  but  Darrell  he  thought  he  knew. 
The  trouble  at  Bay  City  had  inspired  him  with 
a  great  contempt  for  the  walking  boss.  That 
is  where  his  mistake  came  in. 

It  was  very  cold.  The  snow  was  up  to  the 
horses'  bellies,  so  Silver  Jack  had  to  drive  at  a 
plunging  walk.  Occasionally  one  or  the  other 
of  the  two  stood  up  and  thrashed  his  arms  about. 
At  noon  they  ate  sandwiches  of  cold  fried  bacon, 
which  the  frost  rendered  brittle  as  soon  as  it  left 
the  warmth  of  their  inside  pockets.  Underfoot 
the  runners  of  the  cutter  shrieked  loudly.  They 
saw  the  tracks  of  deer  and  wolves  and  partridge, 
and  encountered  a  few  jays,  chickadees,  and 
woodpeckers.  Otherwise  the  forest  seemed  quite 
empty.  By  half -past  two  they  had  made  nine 
miles,  and  the  sun,  in  this  high  latitude,  was 
swinging  lower.  Silver  Jack  spoke  angrily  to 
his  struggling  animals.  The  other  had  fallen 
into  the  silence  of  numbness. 

They  did  not  know  that  across  the  reaches  of 


34  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

th?  forest  a  man  was  hurrying  to  intercept  them, 
a  man  who  hastened  to  cope  with  this  new  com 
plication  as  readily  as  he  would  have  coped  with 
the  emergency  of  a  lack  of  flour  or  the  sickness 
of  horses.  They  drove  confidently. 

Suddenly  from  nowhere  a  figure  appeared  in 
the  trail  before  them.  It  stood,  silent  and  im 
passive,  with  forward-drooping,  heavy  shoulders, 
watching  the  approaching  cutter  through  in 
scrutable  chipmunk  eyes.  When  the  strangers 
had  approached  to  within  a  few  feet  of  this  man, 
the  horses  stopped  of  their  own  accord. 

"Hello,  Darrell,"  greeted  Silver  Jack,  tug 
ging  at  one  of  the  stone  jugs  beneath  the  seat, 
* 'you're  just  the  man  I  wanted  to  see." 

The  figure  made  no  reply. 

"Have  a  drink,"  offered  the  big  man,  finally 
extricating  the  whiskey. 

"You  can't  take  that  whiskey  into  camp,"  said 
Darrell. 

"Oh,  I  guess  so,"  replied  Silver  Jack,  easily, 
hoping  for  the  peaceful  solution.  "There  ain't 
enough  to  get  anybody  full.  Have  a  taster, 
Darrell;  it's  pretty  good  stuff." 

"I  mean  it,"  repeated  Darrell.  "You  got  to 
go  back."  He  seized  the  horses'  bits  and  began 
to  lead  them  in  the  reversing  circle. 


THE   FOREMAN  35 

"Hold  on  there!"  cried  Silver  Jack.  "You 
let  them  horses  alone!  You  damn  little  runt! 
Let  them  alone  I  say!"  The  robe  was  kicked 
aside,  and  Silver  Jack  prepared  to  descend. 

Richard  Darrell  twisted  his  feet  out  of  his 
snow-shoe  straps.  "You  can't  take  that  whiskey 
into  camp,"  he  repeated  simply. 

"Now  look  here,  Darrell,"  said  the  other  in 
even  tones,  "don't  you  make  no  mistake.  I  ain't 
selling  this  whiskey;  I'm  giving  it  away.  The 
law  can't  touch  me.  You  ain't  any  right  to  say 
where  I'll  go,  and,  by  God,  I'm  going  where  I 
please !" 

"You  got  to  go  back  with  that  whiskey,"  re 
plied  Darrell. 

Silver  Jack  threw  aside  his  coat,  and  advanced. 
"You  get  out  of  my  way,  or  I'll  kick  you  out, 
like  I  done  at  Bay  City." 

In  an  instant  two  blows  were  exchanged.  The 
first  marked  Silver  Jack's  bronze-red  face  just 
to  the  left  of  his  white  eyebrow.  The  second 
sent  Richard  Darrell  gasping  and  sobbing  into 
the  snow-bank  ten  feet  away.  He  arose  with 
the  blood  streaming  from  beneath  his  mustache. 
His  eager,  nervous  face  was  white ;  his  chipmunk 
eyes  narrowed;  his  great  hands,  held  palm 
backward,  clutched  spasmodically.  With  the 


36  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

stealthy  motion  of  a  cat  he  approached  his  an 
tagonist,  and  sprang.  Silver  Jack  stood  straight 
and  confident,  awaiting  him.  Three  times  the 
aggressor  was  knocked  entirely  off  his  feet. 
The  fourth  he  hit  against  the  cutter  body,  and 
his  fingers  closed  on  the  axe  which  all  voyagers 
through  the  forest  carry  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"He's  gettin'  ugly.  Come  on,  Hank!"  cried 
Silver  Jack. 

The  other  man,  with  a  long  score  to  pay  the 
walking  boss,  seized  the  iron  starting-bar,  and 
descended.  Out  from  the  inscrutable  white  for 
est  murder  breathed  like  a  pestilential  air.  The 
two  men  talked  about  it  easily,  confidently. 

"You  ketch  him  on  one  side,  and  I'll  come  in 
on  the  other,"  said  the  man  named  Hank,  grip 
ping  his  short,  heavy  bar. 

The  forest  lay  behind;  the  forest,  easily  pene 
trable  to  a  man  in  moccasins.  Richard  Darrell 
could  at  any  moment  have  fled  beyond  the  possi 
bility  of  pursuit.  This  had  become  no  mere  ques 
tion  of  a  bar-room  fisticuff,  but  of  life  and  death. 
He  had  begged  abjectly  from  the  pain  of  a  cuff 
on  the  ear ;  now  he  merely  glanced  over  his  shoul 
der  toward  the  safety  that  lay  beyond.  Then, 
with  a  cry,  he  whirled  the  axe  about  his  head  and 
threw  it  directly  at  the  second  of  his  antagonists. 


THE   FOREMAN  37 

The  flat  of  the  implement  struck  heavily,  full  on 
the  man's  forehead.  He  fell,  stunned.  Imme 
diately  the  other  two  precipitated  themselves  on 
the  weapons.  This  time  Silver  Jack  secured  the 
axe,  while  Darrell  had  to  content  himself  with 
the  short,  heavy  bar.  The  strange  duel  recom 
menced,  while  the  horses,  mildly  curious,  gazed 
through  the  steam  of  their  nostrils  at  their  war 
ring  masters. 

Overhead  the  ravens  of  the  far  north  idled 
to  and  fro.  When  the  three  men  lay  still  on 
the  trampled  snow,  they  stooped,  nearer  and 
nearer.  Then  they  towered.  One  of  the  men 
had  stirred. 

Richard  Darrell  painfully  cleared  his  eyes  and 
dragged  himself  to  a  sitting  position,  sweeping 
the  blood  of  his  shallow  wound  from  his  fore 
head.  He  searched  out  the  axe.  With  it  he 
first  smashed  in  the  whiskey  jugs.  Then  he 
wrecked  the  cutter,  chopping  it  savagely  until 
it  was  reduced  to  splinters  and  twisted  iron.  By 
the  time  this  was  done,  his  antagonists  were  in 
the  throes  of  returning  consciousness.  He  stood 
over  them,  dominant,  menacing. 

"You  hit  th'  back  trail,"  said  he,  "damn  quick! 
Don't  you  let  me  see  you  'round  these  diggings 
again." 


38  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

Silver  Jack,  bewildered,  half  stunned,  not  un 
derstanding  this  little  cowardly  man  who  had 
permitted  himself  to  be  kicked  from  the  saloon, 
rose  slowly. 

"You  stand  there!"  commanded  Darrell. 
He  opened  a  pocket-knife,  and  cut  the  harness 
to  bits,  leaving  only  the  necessary  head-stalls 
intact. 

"Now  git!"  said  he.  "Pike  out! — fer  Beeson 
Lake.  Don't  you  stop  at  no  Camp  Twenty- 
eight!" 

Appalled  at  the  prospect  of  the  long  journey 
through  the  frozen  forest,  Silver  Jack  and  his 
companion  silently  led  the  horses  away.  As  they 
reached  the  bend  in  the  trail,  they  looked  back. 
The  sun  was  just  setting  through  the  trees, 
throwing  the  illusion  of  them  gigantic  across  the 
eye.  And  he  stood  there  huge,  menacing, 
against  the  light — the  dominant  spirit,  Roaring 
Dick  of  the  woods,  the  incarnation  of  Necessity, 
the  Man  defending  his  Work,  the  Foreman ! 


Ill 

THE    SCALEE 

Once  Morrison  &  Daly,  of  Saginaw,  but  then 
lumbering  at  Beeson  Lake,  lent  some  money  to 
a  man  named  Crothers,  taking  in  return  a  mort 
gage  on  what  was  known  as  the  Crothers  Tract 
of  white  pine.  In  due  time,  as  Crothers  did  not 
liquidate,  the  firm  became  possessed  of  this  tract. 
They  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with  it. 

The  timber  was  situated  some  fifty  miles  from 
the  railroad  in  a  country  that  threw  all  sorts  of 
difficulties  across  the  logger's  path,  and  had  to 
be  hauled  from  nine  to  fifteen  miles  to  the  river. 
Both  Morrison  and  Daly  groaned  in  spirit. 
Supplies  would  have  to  be  toted  in  to  last  the 
entire  winter,  for  when  the  snow  came,  com 
munication  over  fifty  miles  of  forest  road  would 
be  as  good  as  cut  off.  Whom  could  they  trust 
among  the  lesser  foremen  of  their  woods  force? 
Whom  could  they  spare  among  the  greater? 

At  this  juncture  they  called  to  them  Tim 


39 


40  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

Shearer,  their  walking  boss  and  the  greatest 
riverman  in  the  State. 

"You'll  have  to  'job'  her,"  said  Tim,  promptly. 

"Who  would  be  hired  at  any  price  to  go  up 
in  that  country  on  a  ten-mile  haul?"  demanded 
Daly,  sceptically. 

"Jest  one  man,"  replied  Tim,  "an'  I  know 
where  to  find  him." 

He  returned  with  an  individual  at  the  sight 
of  whom  the  partners  glanced  toward  each  other 
in  doubt  and  dismay.  But  there  seemed  no  help 
for  it.  A  contract  was  drawn  up  in  which  the 
firm  agreed  to  pay  six  dollars  a  thousand,  mer 
chantable  scale,  for  all  saw-logs  banked  at  a  roll- 
way  to  be  situated  a  given  number  of  miles  from 
the  forks  of  Cass  Branch,  while  on  his  side  James 
Bourke,  better  known  as  the  Rough  Red,  agreed 
to  put  in  at  least  three  and  one-half  million  feet. 
After  the  latter  had  scrawled  his  signature  he 
lurched  from  the  office,  softly  rubbing  his  hairy 
freckled  hand  where  the  pen  had  touched  it. 

"That  means  a  crew  of  wild  Irishmen,"  said 
Morrison. 

"And  that  means  they'll  just  slaughter  the 
pine,"  added  Daly.  "They'll  saw  high  and 
crooked,  they'll  chuck  the  tops — who  are  we  go 
ing  to  send  to  scale  for  'em?" 


THE    SCALER  41 

Morrison  sighed.  "I  hate  to  do  it:  there's 
only  Fitz  can  make  it  go." 

So  then  they  called  to  them  another  of  their 
best  men,  named  FitzPatrick,  and  sent  him  away 
alone  to  protect  the  firm's  interests  in  the  depths 
of  the  wilderness. 

The  Rough  Red  was  a  big  broad-faced  man 
with  eyes  far  apart  and  a  bushy  red  beard.  He 
wore  a  dingy  mackinaw  coat,  a  dingy  black-and- 
white  checked-flannel  shirt,  dingy  blue  trousers, 
tucked  into  high  socks  and  lumberman's  rubbers. 
The  only  spot  of  colour  in  his  costume  was  the 
flaming  red  sash  of  the  voyageur  which  he  passed 
twice  around  his  waist.  When  at  work  his  little 
wide  eyes  flickered  with  a  baleful,  wicked  light, 
his  huge  voice  bellowed  through  the  woods  in  a 
torrent  of  imprecations  and  commands,  his  splen 
did  muscles  swelled  visibly  even  under  his  loose 
blanket-coat  as  he  wrenched  suddenly  and  sav 
agely  at  some  man's  stubborn  cant-hook  stock. 
A  hint  of  reluctance  or  opposition  brought  his 
fist  to  the  mark  with  irresistible  impact.  Then 
he  would  pluck  his  victim  from  the  snow,  and 
kick  him  to  work  with  a  savage  jest  that  raised 
a  laugh  from  everybody — excepting  the  object 
of  it. 

At  night  he  stormed  back  through  the  forest 


42  BLAZED   TRAIL,    STORIES 

at  the  head  of  his  band,  shrieking  wild  blas 
phemy  at  the  silent  night,  irreverent,  domineer 
ing,  bold,  with  a  certain  tang  of  Irish  good 
nature  that  made  him  the  beloved  of  Irishmen. 
And  at  the  trail's  end  the  unkempt,  ribald  crew 
swarmed  their  dark  and  dirty  camp  as  a  band  of 
pirates  a  galleon. 

In  the  work  was  little  system,  but  much  effi 
cacy.  The  men  gambled,  drank,  fought,  with 
out  a  word  of  protest  from  their  leader.  With 
an  ordinary  crew  such  performances  would  have 
meant  slight  accomplishment,  but  these  wild 
Irishmen,  with  their  bloodshot  eyes,  their  ready 
jests,  their  equally  ready  fists,  plunged  into  the 
business  of  banking  logs  with  all  the  abandon  of 
a  carouse — and  the  work  was  done. 

Law  in  that  wilderness  was  not,  saving  that 
which  the  Rough  Red  chose  to  administer.  Ex 
cept  in  one  instance,  penalty  more  severe  than 
a  beating  there  was  none,  for  the  men  could  not 
equal  their  leader  in  breaking  the  greater  and 
lesser  laws  of  morality.  The  one  instance  was 
that  of  young  Barney  Mallan,  who,  while 
drunk,  mishandled  a  horse  so  severely  as  to  lame 
it.  Him  the  Rough  Red  called  to  formal  ac 
count. 

"Don't  ye  know  that  horses  can't  be  had?"  he 


THE    SCALER  43 

demanded,  singularly  enough  without  an  oath. 
"Come  here." 

The  man  approached.  With  a  single  power 
ful  blow  of  a  starting-bar  the  Rough  Red  broke 
one  of  the  bones  of  his  tibia. 

"Try  th'  lameness  yerself,"  said  the  Rough 
Red,  grimly.  He  glared  about  through  the 
dimness  at  his  silent  men,  then  stalked  through 
the  door  into  the  cook-camp.  Had  he  killed 
Barney  Mallan  outright,  it  would  have  been  the 
same.  No  one  in  the  towns  would  have  been  a 
word  the  wiser. 

On  Thanksgiving  Day  the  entire  place  went 
on  a  prolonged  drunk.  The  Rough  Red  distin 
guished  himself  by  rolling  the  round  stove 
through  the  door  into  the  snow.  He  was  badly 
burned  in  accomplishing  this  delicate  jest,  but 
minded  the  smart  no  more  then  he  did  the  ad 
miring  cheers  of  his  maudlin  but  emulative 
mates.  FitzPatrick  extinguished  a  dozen  little 
fires  that  the  coals  had  started,  shifted  the  in 
toxicated  Mallan's  leg  out  of  the  danger  of  some 
one's  falling  on  it,  and  departed  from  that  roar 
ing  hell-hole  to  the  fringe  of  the  solemn  forest. 
And  this  brings  us  to  FitzPatrick. 

FitzPatrick  was  a  tall,  slow  man,  with  a  face 
built  square.  The  lines  of  his  brows,  his  mouth, 


44  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

and  his  jaw  ran  straight  across;  those  of  his 
temples,  cheeks,  and  nose  straight  up  and  down. 
His  eye  was  very  quiet  and  his  speech  rare. 
When  he  did  talk,  it  was  with  deliberation.  For 
days,  sometimes,  he  would  ejaculate  nothing  but 
monosyllables,  looking  steadily  on  the  things 
about  him. 

He  had  walked  in  ahead  of  the  tote-team  late 
one  evening  in  the  autumn,  after  the  Rough  Red 
and  his  devils  had  been  at  work  a  fortnight. 
The  camp  consisted  quite  simply  of  three  build 
ings,  which  might  have  been  identified  as  a  cook- 
camp,  a  sleeping-camp,  and  a  stable.  Fitz- 
Patrick  entered  the  sleeping-camp,  stood  his 
slender  scaling-rule  in  the  corner,  and  peered 
about  him  through  the  dusk  of  a  single  lamp. 

He  saw  a  round  stove  in  the  centre,  a  littered 
and  dirty  floor,  bunks  filled  with  horrible  straw 
and  worse  blankets  jumbled  here  and  there,  old 
and  dirty  clothes  drying  fetidly.  He  saw  an 
unkempt  row  of  hard-faced  men  along  the 
deacon-seat,  reckless  in  bearing,  with  the  light 
of  the  dare-devil  in  their  eyes. 

"Where  is  the  boss?"  asked  FitzPatrick, 
steadily. 

The  Rough  Red  lurched  his  huge  form  toward 
the  intruder. 


THE   SCALER  45 

"I  am  your  sealer,"  explained  the  latter. 
"Where  is  the  office?" 

"You  can  have  the  bunk  beyand,"  indicated 
the  Rough  Red,  surlily. 

"You  have  no  office  then?" 

"What's  good  enough  fer  th'  men  is  good 
enough  for  a  boss;  and  what's  good  enough  fer 
th'  boss  is  good  enough  fer  any  blank  blanked 
sealer." 

"It  is  not  good  enough  for  this  one,"  replied 
FitzPatrick,  calmly.  "I  have  no  notion  of 
sleepin'  and  workin'  in  no  such  noise  an'  dirt. 
I  need  an  office  to  keep  me  books  and  th'  van. 
Not  a  log  do  I  scale  for  ye,  Jimmy  Bourke,  till 
you  give  me  a  fit  place  to  tally  in." 

And  so  it  came  about,  though  the  struggle 
lasted  three  days.  The  Rough  Red  stormed 
restlessly  between  the  woods  and  the  camp,  de 
livering  tremendous  broadsides  of  oaths  and 
threats.  FitzPatrick  sat  absolutely  imperturba 
ble  on  the  deacon-seat,  looking  straight  in  front 
of  him,  his  legs  stretched  comfortably  aslant, 
one  hand  supporting  the  elbow  of  the  other, 
which  in  turn  held  his  short  brier  pipe. 

"Good-mornin'  to  ye,  Jimmy  Bourke,"  said 
he  each  morning,  and  after  that  uttered  no  word 
until  the  evening,  when  it  was,  "Good-night  to 


46  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

ye,  Jimmy  Bourke,"  with  a  final  rap,  rap,  rap  of 
his  pipe. 

The  cook,  a  thin-faced,  sly  man,  with  a  pen 
chant  for  the  Police  Gazette,  secretly  admired 
him. 

"Luk'  out  for  th'  Rough  Red;  he'll  do  ye!" 
he  would  whisper  hoarsely  when  he  passed  the 
silent  sealer. 

But  in  the  three  days  the  Rough  Red  put  his 
men  to  work  on  a  little  cabin.  FitzPatrick  at 
once  took  his  scaling-rule  from  the  corner  and 
set  out  into  the  forest. 

His  business  was,  by  measuring  the  diameter 
of  each  log,  to  ascertain  and  tabulate  the  number 
of  board  feet  put  in  by  the  contractor.  On  the 
basis  of  his  single  report  James  Bourke  would 
be  paid  for  the  season's  work.  Inevitably  he  at 
once  became  James  Bourke's  natural  enemy,  and 
so  of  every  man  in  the  crew  with  the  possible 
exception  of  the  cook. 

Suppose  you  log  a  knoll  which  your  eye  tells 
you  must  grow  at  least  a  half -million ;  suppose 
you  work  conscientiously  for  twelve  days;  sup 
pose  your  average  has  always  been  between  forty 
and  fifty  thousand  a  day.  And  then  suppose 
the  sealer's  sheets  credit  you  with  only  a  little 
over  the  four  hundred  thousand!  What  would 


THE   SCALER  47 

you  think  of  it?  Would  you  not  be  inclined 
to  suspect  that  the  sealer  had  cheated  you  in 
favour  of  his  master?  that  you  had  been  com 
pelled  by  false  figures  to  work  a  day  or  so  for 
nothing? 

FitzPatrick  scaled  honestly,  for  he  was  a  just 
man,  but  exactitude  and  optimism  of  estimate 
never  have  approximated,  and  they  did  not  in 
this  case.  The  Rough  Red  grumbled,  accused,, 
swore,  threatened.  FitzPatrick  smoked  "Peer 
less,"  and  said  nothing.  Still  it  was  not  pleas 
ant  for  him,  alone  there  in  the  dark  wilderness 
fifty  miles  from  the  nearest  settlement,  without 
a  human  being  with  whom  to  exchange  a  friendly 
word. 

The  two  men  early  came  to  a  clash  over  the 
methods  of  cutting.  The  Rough  Red  and  his 
crew  cut  anywhere,  everywhere,  anyhow.  The 
easiest  way  was  theirs.  Small  timber  they 
skipped,  large  timber  they  sawed  high,  tops  they 
left  rather  than  trim  them  into  logs.  FitzPat 
rick  would  not  have  the  pine  "slaughtered." 

"Ye'll  bend  your  backs  a  little,  Jimmy 
Bourke,"  said  he,  "and  cut  th'  stumps  lower  to 
th'  ground.  There's  a  bunch  of  shingles  at  least 
in  every  stump  ye've  left.  And  you  must  saw 
straighter.  And  th'  contract  calls  for  eight 


48  BLAZED  TRAIL   STORIES 

inches  and  over;  mind  ye  that.  Don't  go  to 
skippin'  th'  little  ones  because  they  won't  scale 
ye  high.  'Tis  in  the  contract  so.  And  I  won't 
have  th'  tops  left.  There's  many  a  good  log  in 
them,  an'  ye  trim  them  fair  and  clean." 

"Go  to  hell,  you—  "  shouted  the  Rough  Red. 
"Where  th'  blazes  did  ye  learn  so  much  of  log- 
gin'?  I  log  th'  way  me  father  logged,  an'  I'm 
not  to  be  taught  by  a  high-banker  from  th'  Mus- 
kegon !" 

Never  would  he  acknowledge  the  wrong  nor 
promise  the  improvement,  but  both  were  there, 
and  both  he  and  FitzPatrick  knew  it.  The 
Rough  Red  chafed  frightfully,  but  in  a  way  his 
hands  were  tied.  He  could  do  nothing  without 
the  report;  and  it  was  too  far  out  to  send  for 
another  sealer,  even  if  Daly  would  have  given 
him  one. 

Finally  in  looking  over  a  skidway  he  noticed 
that  one  log  had  not  been  blue-pencilled  across 
the  end.  That  meant  that  it  had  not  been  scaled ; 
and  that  in  turn  meant  that  he,  the  Rough  Red, 
would  not  be  paid  for  his  labour  in  cutting  and 
banking  it.  At  once  he  began  to  bellow  through 
the  woods. 

"Hey!  FitzPatrick!  Come  here,  you  blank- 
blanked-blank  of  a  blank!  Come  here!" 


THE   SCALER  49 

The  sealer  swung  leisurely  down  the  travoy 
trail  and  fronted  the  other  with  level  eyes. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"Why  ain't  that  log  marked?" 

"I  culled  it." 

"Ain't  it  sound  and  good?  Is  there  a  mark 
on  it?  A  streak  of  punk  or  rot?  Ain't  it  good 
timber?  What  the  hell's  th'  matter  with  it? 
You  tried  to  do  me  out  of  that,  you  damn 
skunk." 

A  log  is  culled,  or  thrown  out,  when,  for  any 
reason,  it  will  not  make  good  timber. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Jimmy  Bourke,"  replied  Fitz- 
Patrick,  calmly,  "th'  stick  is  sound  and  good,  or 
was  before  your  murderin'  crew  got  hold  of  it, 
but  if  ye'll  take  a  squint  at  the  butt  of  it  ye'll 
see  that  your  gang  has  sawed  her  on  a  six-inch 
slant.  They've  wasted  a  good  foot  of  th'  log. 
I  spoke  of  that  afore;  an'  now  I  give  ye  warnin' 
that  I  cull  every  log,  big  or  little,  punk  or  sound, 
that  ain't  sawed  square  and  true  across  th'  butt." 

"Th'  log  is  sound  and  good,  an'  ye'll  scale  it, 
or  I'll  know  th'  reason  why!" 

"I  will  not,"  replied  FitzPatrick. 

The  following  day  he  culled  a  log  in  another 
and  distant  skidway  whose  butt  showed  a  slant 
of  a  good  six  inches.  The  day  following  he 


^50  BLAZED   TEAIL   STORIES 

culled  another  of  the  same  sort  on  still  another 
skid  way.  He  examined  it  closely,  then  sought 
the  Rough  Red. 

"It  is  useless,  Jimmy  Bourke,"  said  he,  "to  be 
hauling  of  the  same  poor  log  from  skidway  to 
skidway.  You  can  shift  her  to  every  travoy 
trail  in  th'  Crother  tract,  but  it  will  do  ye  little 
good.  I'll  cull  it  wherever  I  find  it,  and  never 
will  ye  get  th'  scale  of  that  log." 

The  Rough  Red  raised  his  hand,  then  dropped 
it  again;  whirled  away  with  a  curse;  whirled 
back  with  another,  and  spat  out: 

"By  God,  FitzPatrick,  ye  go  too  far!  Ye've 
hounded  me  and  harried  me  through  th'  woods 
all  th'  year!  By  God,  'tis  a  good  stick,  an'  ye 
shall  scale  it!" 

"Yo'  and  yore  Old  Fellows  is  robbers  alike!" 
cried  one  of  the  men. 

FitzPatrick  turned  on  his  heel  and  resumed  his 
work.  The  men  ceased  theirs  and  began  to  talk. 

That  night  was  Christmas  Eve.  After  supper 
the  Rough  Red  went  directly  from  the  cook-camp 
to  the  men's  camp.  FitzPatrick,  sitting  lonely 
in  the  little  office,  heard  the  sounds  of  debauch 
rising  steadily  like  mysterious  storm  winds  in 
distant  pines.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
tallied  his  day's  scaling,  and  turned  into  his  bunk 


THE    SCALER  51 

wearily,  for  of  holidays  there  are  none  in  the 
woods,  save  Sunday.  About  midnight  someone 
came  in.  FitzPatrick,  roused  from  his  sleep  by 
aimless  blunderings,  struck  a  light,  and  saw  the 
cook  looking  uncertainly  toward  him  through 
blood-clotted  lashes.  The  man  was  partly 
drunk,  partly  hurt,  but  more  frightened. 

"They's  too  big  fer  me,  too  big  fer  me!"  he 
repeated,  thickly. 

FitzPatrick  kicked  aside  the  blankets  and  set 
foot  on  the  floor. 

"Le'  me  stay,"  pleaded  the  cook,  "I  won't 
bother  you;  I  won't  even  make  a  noise.  I'm 
skeered!" 

"Course  you  can  stay,"  replied  the  sealer. 
"Come  here." 

He  washed  the  man's  forehead,  and  bound  up 
the  cut  with  surgeon's  plaster  from  the  van. 
The  man  fell  silent,  looking  at  him  in  wonder 
ment  for  such  kindness. 

Four  hours  later,  dimly,  through  the  mist  of 
his  broken  sleep,  FitzPatrick  heard  the  crew  de 
part  for  the  woods  in  the  early  dawn.  On  the 
crest  of  some  higher  waves  of  consciousness  were 
borne  to  him  drunken  shouts,  maudlin  blas 
phemies.  After  a  time  he  arose  and  demanded 
breakfast. 


52  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

The  cook,  pale  and  nervous,  served  him.  The 
man  was  excited,  irresolute,  eager  to  speak. 
Finally  he  dropped  down  on  the  bench  opposite 
FitzPatrick,  and  began. 

"Fitz,"  said  he,  "don't  go  in  th'  woods  to-day. 
The  men  is  fair  wild  wid  th'  drink,  and  th' 
Rough  Red  is  beside  hi'self .  Las'  night  I  heerd 
them.  They  are  goin'  to  skid  the  butt  log  again, 
and  they  swear  that  if  you  cull  it  again,  they  will 
kill  you.  They  mean  it.  That's  all  why  they 
wint  to  th'  woods  this  day." 

FitzPatrick  swallowed  his  coffee  in  silence. 
In  silence  he  arose  and  slipped  on  his  mackinaw 
blanket  coat.  In  silence  he  thrust  his  beechwood 
tablets  into  his  pocket,  and  picked  his  pliable 
sealer's  rule  from  the  corner. 

"Where  are  ye  goin'?"  asked  the  cook,  anx 
iously. 

"I'm  goin'  to  do  th'  work  they  pay  me  to  do," 
answered  FitzPatrick. 

He  took  his  way  down  the  trail,  his  face  set 
straight  before  him,  the  smoke  of  his  breath 
streaming  behind.  The  first  skidway  he  scaled 
with  care,  laying  his  rule  flat  across  the  face  of 
each  log,  entering  the  figures  on  his  many-leaved 
tablets  of  beech,  marking  the  timbers  swiftly 
with  his  blue  crayon. 


THE    SCALER  53 

The  woods  were  empty.  No  ring  of  the  axe, 
no  shout  of  the  driver,  no  fall  of  the  tree  broke 
the  silence.  FitzPatrick  comprehended.  He 
knew  that  at  the  next  skidway  the  men  were 
gathered,  waiting  to  see  what  he  would  do ;  gath 
ered  openly  at  last  in  that  final  hostility  which 
had  been  maturing  all  winter.  He  knew,  be 
sides,  that  most  of  them  were  partly  drunk  and 
wholly  reckless,  and  that  he  was  alone.  Never 
theless,  after  finishing  conscientiously  skidway 
number  one,  he  moved  on  to  skidway  number 
two. 

There,  as  he  had  expected,  the  men  were  wait 
ing  in  ominous  silence,  their  eyes  red  with  de 
bauch  and  hate.  FitzPatrick  paid  them  no  heed, 
but  set  about  his  business. 

Methodically,  deliberately,  he  did  the  work. 
Then,  when  the  last  pencil-mark  had  been  made, 
and  the  tablets  had  been  closed  with  a  snap  of 
finality,  the  Rough  Red  stepped  forward. 

"Ye  have  finished  with  this  skidway?"  asked 
the  foreman  in  soft  cat-tones. 

"I  have,"  answered  FitzPatrick,  briefly. 

"Yo*  have  forgot  to  scale  one  stick." 

"No." 

"There  is  a  stick  still  not  marked." 

"I  culled  it." 


54  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

"Why?" 

"It  was  not  sawed  straight." 

FitzPatrick  threw  his  head  back  proudly,  an 
swering  his  man  at  ease,  as  an  accomplished 
swordsman.  The  Rough  Red  shifted  his  feet, 
almost  awed  in  spite  of  himself.  One  after  an 
other  the  men  dropped  their  eyes  and  stood  ill 
at  ease.  The  sealer  turned  away ;  his  heel  caught 
a  root;  he  stumbled;  instantly  the  pack  was  on 
him,  for  the  power  of  his  eye  was  broken. 

Mad  with  rage  they  kicked  and  beat  and  tore 
at  FitzPatrick's  huddled  form  long  after  con 
sciousness  had  left  it.  Then  an  owl  hooted  from 
the  shadow  of  the  wood,  or  a  puff  of  wind  swept 
by,  or  a  fox  barked,  or  some  other  little  thing 
happened,  so  that  in  blind  unreasoning  panic 
they  fled.  The  place  was  deserted,  save  for  the 
dark  figure  against  the  red-and-white  snow. 

FitzPatrick  regained  his  wits  in  pain,  and  so 
knew  he  was  still  on  earth.  Every  movement 
cost  him  a  moan,  and  some  agency  outside  him 
self  inflicted  added  torture.  After  a  long  time 
he  knew  it  was  the  cook,  who  was  kindly  knead 
ing  his  limbs  and  knuckling  his  hair.  The  man 
proved  to  be  in  a  maze  of  wonderment  over  his 
patient's  tenacity  of  life. 

"I  watched  ye,"  he  murmured  soothingly,  "I 


THE   SCALER  55 

did  not  dare  interfere.  But  I  kem  to  yo'  's  soon 
as  I  could.  See,  here's  a  fire  that  I  built  for  ye, 
and  some  tea.  Take  a  little.  And  no  bones 
broke!  True  for  ye,  ye're  a  hearty  man,  and 
strong  with  th'  big  muscles  on  ye  fit  to  fight  th' 
Rough  Red  man  to  man.  Get  th'  use  of  yere 
legs,  darlint,  an'  I'll  tak'  ye  to  camp,  for  its  fair 
drunk  they  are  by  now.  Sure  an'  I  tole  ye 
they'd  kill  ye?" 

"But  they  didn't,"  muttered  FitzPatrick  with 
a  gleam  of  humour. 

"Sure  'twas  not  their  fault — nor  yer  own!" 

Hours  later,  as  it  seemed,  they  moved  slowly 
in  the  direction  of  camp.  The  cold  had  stiff 
ened  FitzPatrick's  cuts  and  bruises.  Every 
step  shot  a  red  wave  of  torture  through  his 
arteries  to  his  brain.  They  came  in  sight  of 
camp.  It  was  silent.  Both  knew  that  the  men 
had  drunk  themselves  into  a  stupor. 

"I'd  like  t'  kill  th'  whole  lay-out  as  she  sleeps," 
snarled  the  cook,  shaking  his  fist. 

"So  would  I,"  replied  FitzPatrick. 

Then  as  they  looked,  a  thin  wreath  of  smoke 
curled  from  under  the  open  doorway  and  spread 
lazily  in  the  frosty  air.  Another  followed;  an 
other  ;  still  another.  The  cabin  was  afire. 

"They've  kicked  over  th'  stove  again,"  said 


56  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

FitzPatrick,  seating  himself  on  a  stump.  His 
eyes  blazed  with  wrath  and  bitterness. 

"What  yo'  goin'  to  do?"  asked  the  cook. 

"Sit  here,"  replied  FitzPatrick,  grimly. 

The  cook  started  forward. 

"Stop!"  shouted  the  sealer,  fiercely;  "if  you 
move  a  step,  I'll  break  your  back!" 

The  cook  stared  at  him  through  saucer  eyes. 

"But  they'd  be  burnt  alive!"  he  objected, 
wildly. 

"They  ought  to  be,"  snarled  the  sealer;  "it 
ain't  their  fault  I'm  here  to  help  them.  'Tis 
their  own  deed  that  I'm  now  lyin'  bey  ant  there 
in  th'  forest,  unable  to  help  myself.  Do  you  un 
derstand?  I'm  yet  out  there  in  th'  woods!" 

"Ah,  wirra,  wirra!"  wailed  the  cook,  wringing 
his  hands.  "Th'  poor  lads!"  He  began  to 
weep. 

FitzPatrick  stared  straight  in  front  of  him 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  struck  his  forehead,  and 
with  wonderful  agility,  considering  the  injuries 
he  had  but  just  received,  tore  down  the  hill  in 
the  direction  of  the  smouldering  cabin.  The 
cook  followed  him  joyfully.  Together  they  put 
out  the  fire.  The  men  snored  like  beasts,  undis 
turbed  by  all  the  tumult. 

"  'Tis  th'  soft  heart  ye  have  after  all,  Fitz," 


THE   SCALER  57 

said  the  cook,  delightedly,  as  the  two  washed  their 
hands  in  preparation  for  a  lunch.  "Ye  could 
not  bear  t'  see  th'  lads  burn." 

FitzPatrick  glowered  at  him  for  an  instant 
from  beneath  his  square  brows. 

"They  can  go  to  hell  for  all  of  me,"  he  an 
swered,  finally,  "but  my  people  want  these  logs 
put  in  this  winter,  an'  there's  nobody  else  to  put 
them  in." 


IV 

THE   RIVER-BOSS 

"Obey  orders  if  you  break  owners"  is  a  good  rule, 
but  a  really  efficient  river-boss  knows  a  better. 
It  runs,  "Get  the  logs  out.  Get  them  out  peace 
ably  if  you  can,  but  get  them  out.""  He  does  not 
need  a  field-telephone  to  headquarters  to  teach 
him  how  to  live  up  to  the  spirit  of  this  rule. 
That  might  involve  headquarters. 

Jimmy  was  such  a  river-boss.  Therefore  when 
Mr.  Daly,  of  the  firm  of  Morrison  &  Daly,  un 
expectedly  contracted  to  deliver  five  million  feet 
of  logs  on  a  certain  date,  and  the  logs  an  im 
possible  number  of  miles  up  river,  he  called  in 
Jimmy. 

Jimmy  was  a  small  man,  changeless  as  the 
Egyptian  sphinx.  A  number  of  years  ago  a 
French  comic  journal  published  a  series  of 
sketches  supposed  to  represent  the  Shah  of  Per 
sia  influenced  by  various  emotions.  Under  each 
was  an  appropriate  caption,  such  as  Surprise, 

58 


THE   RIVER-BOSS  59 

Grief,  Anger,  or  Astonishment.  The  portraits 
were  identically  alike,  and  uniformly  impassive. 

Well,  that  was  Jimmy.  He  looked  always  the 
same.  His  hair,  thick  and  black,  grew  low  on 
his  forehead ;  his  beard,  thick  and  black,  mounted 
over  the  ridge  of  his  cheek-bones;  and  his  eye 
brows,  thick  and  black,  extended  in  an  uninter 
rupted  straight  line  from  one  temple  to  the  other. 
Whatever  his  small,  compact,  muscular  body 
might  be  doing,  the  mask  of  his  black  and  white 
imperturbability  remained  always  unchanged. 
Generally  he  sat  clasping  one  knee,  staring  di 
rectly  in  front  of  him,  and  puffing  regularly  on 
a  "meerschaum"  pipe  he  had  earned  by  saving 
the  tags  of  Spearhead  tobacco.  Whatever  you 
said  to  him  sank  without  splash  into  this  almost 
primal  calm  and  was  lost  to  your  view  forever. 
Perhaps  after  a  time  he  might  do  something 
about  it,  but  always  without  explanation,  calmly, 
with  the  lofty  inevitability  of  fate.  In  fact,  he 
never  explained  himself,  even  to  his  employers. 

Daly  swung  his  bulk  back  and  forth  in  the 
office  chair.  Jimmy  sat  bolt  upright,  his  black 
hat  pendant  between  his  knees. 

"I  want  you  to  take  charge  of  the  driving 
crew,  Jimmy,"  said  the  big  man;  "I  want  you  to 
drive  those  logs  down  to  our  booms  as  fast  as 


60  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

you  can.  I  give  you  about  twenty  days.  It 
ought  to  be  done  in  that.  Sanders  will  keep  time 
for  you,  and  Merrill  will  cook.  You  can  get  a 
pretty  good  crew  from  the  East  Branch,  where 
the  drive  is  just  over." 

When  Daly  had  quite  finished  his  remarks, 
Jimmy  got  up  and  went  out  without  a  word. 
Two  days  later  he  and  sixty  men  were  breaking 
rollways  forty-five  miles  up-stream. 

Jimmy  knew  as  well  as  Daly  that  the  latter 
had  given  him  a  hard  task.  Twenty  days  was 
too  brief  a  time.  However,  that  was  none  of  his 
business. 

The  logs,  during  the  winter,  had  been  piled 
in  the  bed  of  the  stream.  They  extended  over 
three  miles  of  rollways.  Jimmy  and  his  crew  be 
gan  at  the  down-stream  end  to  tumble  the  big 
piles  into  the  current.  Sometimes  only  two  or 
three  logs  would  rattle  down ;  at  others  the  whole 
deck  would  bulge  outward,  hover  for  a  moment, 
and  roar  into  the  stream  like  grain  from  an  ele 
vator.  Shortly  the  narrows  below  the  rollways 
jammed.  Twelve  men  were  detailed  as  the  jam 
crew.  Their  business  was  to  keep  the  stream  free 
in  order  that  the  constantly  increasing  supply 
from  the  rollways  might  not  fill  up  the  river.  It 
was  not  an  easy  business,  nor  a  very  safe.  As 


THE   RIVER-BOSS  61 

the  "jam"  strung  out  over  more  and  more  of  the 
river,  the  jam  crew  was  constantly  recruited 
from  the  men  on  the  rollways.  Thus  some  of  the 
logs,  a  very  few,  the  luckiest,  drifted  into  the 
dam  pond  at  Grand  Rapids  within  a  few  days; 
the  bulk  jammed  and  broke  and  jammed  again 
at  a  point  a  few  miles  below  the  rollways,  while  a 
large  proportion  stranded,  plugged,  caught,  and 
tangled  at  the  very  rollways  themselves. 

Jimmy  had  permitted  himself  two  days  in 
which  to  "break  out"  the  rollways.  It  was  done 
in  two.  Then  the  "rear"  was  started.  Men  in 
the  rear  crew  had  to  see  that  every  last  log  got 
into  the  current.  When  a  jam  broke,  the  mid 
dle  of  it  shot  down-stream  in  a  most  spectacular 
fashion,  but  along  the  banks  "winged  out"  most 
distressingly.  Sometimes  the  heavy  sticks  of 
timber  had  been  forced  right  out  on  the  dry  land. 
The  rear  crew  lifted  them  back.  When  an  ob 
stinate  log  grounded,  they  jumped  cheerfully 
into  the  water — with  the  rotten  ice  swirling 
around  them — and  pried  the  thing  off  bottom. 
Between  times  they  stood  upright  on  single,  un 
stable  logs  and  pushed  mightily  with  poles,  while 
the  ice-water  sucked  in  and  out  of  their  spiked 
river  shoes. 

As  for  the  compensations,  naturally  there  was 


62  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

a  good  deal  of  rivalry  between  the  men  on  the 
right  and  left  banks  of  the  river  as  to  which 
"wing"  should  advance  the  fastest;  and  one  ex 
periences  a  certain  physical  thrill  in  venturing 
under  thirty  feet  of  jammed  logs  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  teasing  the  whole  mass  to  cascade 
down  on  one,  or  of  shooting  a  rapid  while  stand 
ing  upright  on  a  single  timber.  I  believe,  too,  it 
is  considered  the  height  of  glory  to  belong  to  a 
rear  crew.  Still,  the  water  is  cold  and  the  hours 
long,  and  you  have  to  sleep  in  a  tent. 

It  can  readily  be  seen  that  the  progress  of  the 
"rear"  measures  the  progress  of  the  drive.  Some 
few  logs  in  the  "jam"  may  run  fifty  miles  a  day 
— and  often  do — but  if  the  sacking  has  gone 
slowly  at  the  rear,  the  drive  may  not  have  gained 
more  than  a  thousand  yards.  Therefore  Jimmy 
stayed  at  the  rear. 

Jimmy  was  a  mighty  good  riverman.  Of 
course  he  had  nerve,  and  could  do  anything  with 
a  log  and  a  peavy,  and  would  fight  at  the  drop 
of  a  hat — any  "bully  boy"  would  qualify  there— 
but  also  he  had  judgment.  He  knew  how  to  use 
the  water,  how  to  recognise  the  key  log  of  jams, 
where  to  place  his  men — in  short,  he  could  get 
out  the  logs.  Now  Jimmy  also  knew  the  river 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  so  he  had  arranged  in 


THE   RIVER-BOSS  63 

his  mind  a  sort  of  schedule  for  the  twenty  days. 
Forty-eight  hours  for  the  rollways;  a  day  and  a 
half  to  the  upper  rapids ;  three  days  into  the  dam 
pond;  one  day  to  sluice  the  drive  through  the 
Grand  Rapids  dam;  three  days  for  the  Cross 
ing;  and  so  on.  If  everything  went  well,  he 
could  do  it,  but  there  must  be  no  hitches  in  the 
programme. 

Even  from  this  imperfect  fragment  of  the 
schedule  the  inexperienced  might  imagine 
Jimmy  had  allowed  an  altogether  disproportion 
ate  time  to  cover  the  mile  or  so  from  the  rapids 
to  the  dam  pond.  As  it  turned,  however,  he 
found  he  had  not  allowed  enough,  for  at  this 
point  the  river  was  peculiar  and  very  trying. 

The  backwater  of  the  dam  extended  up-stream 
a  half  mile;  then  occurred  a  rise  of  four  feet, 
down  the  slope  of  which  the  water  whirled  and 
tumbled,  only  to  spread  out  over  a  broad  fan  of 
gravel  shallows.  These  shallows  did  the  busi 
ness.  When  the  logs  had  bumped  through  the 
tribulations  of  the  rapids,  they  seemed  to  insist 
obstinately  on  resting  in  the  shallows,  like  a  lot 
of  wearied  cattle.  The  rear  crew  had  to  wade 
in.  They  heaved  and  pried  and  pushed  indus 
triously,  and  at  the  end  of  it  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  a  single  log  slide  reluctantly  into  the 


64  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

current.  Sometimes  a  dozen  of  them  would 
clamp  their  peavies  on  either  side,  and  by  sheer 
brute  force  carry  the  stick  to  deep  water.  When 
you  reflect  that  there  were  some  twenty  thousand 
pieces  in  the  drive,  and  that  a  good  fifty  per  cent, 
of  them  balked  below  the  rapids,  you  can  see 
that  a  rear  crew  of  thirty  men  had  its  work  cut 
out  for  it.  Jimmy's  three  days  were  three- 
fourths  gone,  and  his  job  not  more  than  a  third 
finished.  McGann,  the  sluice  boss,  did  a  little 
figuring. 

"She'll  hang  over  thim  twinty  days,"  he  con 
fided  to  Jimmy.  "  Shure  P 

Jimmy  replied  not  a  word,  but  puffed  piston- 
like  smoke  from  his  pipe.  McGann  shrugged  in 
Celtic  despair. 

But  the  little  man  had  been  figuring,  too,  and 
his  arrangements  were  more  elaborate  and  more 
nearly  completed  than  McGann  suspected.  That 
very  morning  he  sauntered  leisurely  out  over  the 
rear  logs,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Every  once 
in  a  while  he  stopped  to  utter  a  few  low-voiced 
words  to  one  or  another  of  the  men.  The  per- 
,son  addressed  first  looked  extremely  astonished; 
then  shouldered  his  peavy  and  started  for  camp, 
leaving  the  diminished  rear  a  prey  to  curiosity. 
Soon  the  word  went  about.  "Day  and  night 


THE   RIVER-BOSS  65- 

Work,"  they  whispered,  though  it  was  a  little  dif 
ficult  to  see  the  difference  in  ultimate  effective 
ness  between  a  half  crew  working  all  the  time 
and  a  whole  crew  working  half  the  time. 

About  now  Daly  began  to  worry.  He  took 
the  train  to  Grand  Rapids,  anxiety  written  deep 
in  his  brows.  When  he  saw  the  little  inade 
quate  crew  pecking  in  a  futile  fashion  at  the  logs; 
winged  out  over  the  shallows,  he  swore  fervidly 
and  sought  Jimmy. 

Jimmy  appeared  calm. 

"We'll  get  them  out  all  right,  Mr.  Daly,"* 
said  he. 

"Get  them  out!"  growled  Daly.  "Sure!  But 
when?  We  ain't  got  all  the  summer  this  season. 
Those  logs  have  got  to  hit  our  booms  in  four 
teen  days  or  they're  no  good  to  us !" 

"You'll  have  'em,"  assured  Jimmy. 

Such  talk  made  Daly  tired,  and  he  said  so. 

"Why,  it'll  take  you  a  week  to  get  her  over 
those  confounded  shallows,"  he  concluded..  "You 
got  to  get  more  men,  Jimmy." 

"I've  tried,"  answered  the  boss.  "They  ain't 
no  more  men  to  be  had." 

"Suffering  Moses!"  groaned  the  owner.  "It 
means  the  loss  of  a  fifty-thousand-dollar  con 
tract  to  me.  You  needn't  tell  me!  I've  been  on 


66  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

the  river  all  my  life.  I  know  you  can't  get  them 
off  inside  of  a  week." 

"I'll  have  'em  off  to-morrow  morning,  but  it 
may  cost  a  little  something,"  asserted  Jimmy, 
calmly. 

Daly  took  one  look  at  the  mass  of  logs,  and 
the  fifteen  men  pulling  out  an  average  of  one  a 
minute.  Then  he  returned  in  disgust  to  the  city, 
where  he  began  to  adjust  his  ideas  to  a  loss  on 
his  contract. 

At  sundown  the  rear  crew  quit  work,  and 
swarmed  to  the  encampment  of  white  tents  on 
the  river-bank.  There  they  hung  wet  clothes 
over  a  big  skeleton  framework  built  around  a 
monster  fire,  and  ate  a  dozen  eggs  apiece  as  a 
side  dish  TO  supper,  and  smoked  pipes  of  strong 
"Peerless"  tobacco,  and  swapped  yarns,  and 
sang  songs,  and  asked  questions.  To  the  latter 
they  received  no  satisfactory  replies.  The  crew 
that  had  been  laid  off  knew  nothing.  It  ap 
peared  they  were  to  go  to  work  after  supper. 
After  supper,  however,  Jimmy  told  them  to  turn, 
in  and  get  a  little  more  sleep.  They  did  turn  in, 
and  speedily  forgot  to  puzzle. 

At  midnight,  however,  Jimmy  entered  the  big 
tent  quietly  with  a  lantern,  touching  each  of  the 
fresh  men  on  the  shoulder.  They  arose  without 


THE  RIVER-BOSS  67 

comment,  and  followed  him  outside.  There  they 
were  given  tools.  Then  the  little  band  defiled 
silently  down  river  under  the  stars. 

Jimmy  led  them,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
puffing  white  steam-clouds  at  regular  intervals 
from  his  "meerschaum"  pipe.  After  twenty 
minutes  they  struck  the  Water  Works,  then  the 
board-walk  of  Canal  Street.  The  word  passed 
back  for  silence.  Near  the  Oriole  Factory  their 
leader  suddenly  dodged  in  behind  the  piles  of 
sawed  lumber,  motioning  them  to  haste.  A  mo 
ment  later  a  fat  and  dignified  officer  passed, 
swinging  his  club.  After  the  policeman  had 
gone,  Jimmy  again  took  up  his  march  at  the  head 
of  fifteen  men,  now  thoroughly  aroused  to  the 
fact  that  something  unusual  was  afoot.  Soon  a 
faint  roar  lifted  the  night  silence.  They  crossed 
a  street,  and  a  moment  after  stood  at  one  end  of 
the  power-dam. 

The  long  smooth  water  shot  over,  like  fluid 
steel,  silent  and  inevitable,  mirroring  distorted 
flashes  of  light  that  were  the  stars.  Below,  it 
broke  in  white  turmoil,  shouting  defiance  at  the 
calm  velvet  rush  above.  Ten  seconds  later  the 
current  was  broken.  A  man,  his  heels  caught 
against  the  combing,  up  to  his  knees  in  water, 
was  braced  back  at  the  exact  angle  to  withstand 


68  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

the  rush.  Two  other  men  passed  down  to  him  a 
short  heavy  timber.  A  third,  plunging  his  arms 
and  shoulders  into  the  liquid,  nailed  it  home  with 
heavy,  inaudible  strokes.  As  though  by  magic  a 
second  timber  braced  the  first,  bolted  through 
sockets  already  cut  for  it.  The  workers  moved 
on  eight  feet,  then  another  eight,  then  another. 
More  men  entered  the  water.  A  row  of  heavy, 
slanted  supports  grew  out  from  the  shoulder  of 
the  dam,  dividing  the  waters  into  long,  arrow- 
shaped  furrows  of  light.  At  half -past  twelve 
Tom  Clute  was  swept  over  the  dam  into  the  eddy. 
He  swam  ashore.  Purdy  took  his  place. 

When  the  supports  had  reached  out  over  half 
of  the  river's  span,  and  the  water  was  dotted 
with  the  shoulders  of  men  gracefully  slanted 
against  the  current,  Jimmy  gave  orders  to  begin 
placing  the  flash-boards.  Heavy  planks  were  at 
once  slid  across  the  supports,  where  the  wreight 
of  the  racing  water  at  once  clamped  them  fast. 
Spikes  held  the  top  board  beyond  the  possibility 
of  a  wrench  loose.  The  smooth,  quiet  river,  in 
terrupted  at  last,  murmured  and  snarled  and 
eddied  back,  only  to  rush  with  increased  vehe 
mence  around  the  end  of  the  rapidly  growing 
obstruction. 

The  policeman,  passing  back  and  forth  on 


THE   RIVER-BOSS  69 

Canal  Street,  heard  no  sound  of  the  labour  go 
ing  on.  If  he  had  been  an  observant  policeman, 
he  would  have  noted  an  ever-changing  tone  in 
the  volume  of  sound  roaring  up  from  the  eddy 
below  the  dam.  After  a  time  even  he  remarked 
on  a  certain  obvious  phenomenon. 

"Sure!"  said  he;  "now,  that's  funny!" 

He  listened  a  moment,  then  passed  on.  The 
vagaries  of  the  river  were,  after  all,  nothing  to 
him.  He  belonged  on  Canal  Street,  east  side; 
and  Canal  Street,  east  side,  seemed  peaceful. 

The  river  had  fallen  absolutely  silent.  The 
last  of  Jimmy's  flash-boards  was  in  place.  Back 
in  the  sleeping  town  the  clock  in  Pierce's  Tower 
struck  two. 

Jimmy  and  his  men,  having  thus  raised  the 
level  of  the  dam  a  good  three  feet,  emerged 
dripping  from  the  west-side  canal,  and  cheer 
fully  took  their  way  northward  to  where,  in  the 
chilly  dawn,  their  companions  were  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  the  just.  As  they  passed  the  riffles  they 
paused.  A  heavy  grumbling  issued  from  the 
logs  jammed  there,  a  grumbling  brutish  and  sul 
len,  as  though  the  reluctant  animals  were  begin 
ning  to  stir.  The  water  had  already  backed  up 
from  the  raised  dam. 

Of  course  the  affair,   from   a   river-driver's 


70  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

standpoint,  at  once  became  exceedingly  simple. 
The  slumbering  fifteen  were  aroused  to  as 
tounded  drowsiness.  By  three,  just  as  the  dawn 
was  beginning  to  differentiate  the  east  from  the 
west,  the  regular  clank,  clank,  clink  of  the 
peavies  proclaimed  that  due  advantage  of  the 
high  water  was  being  seized.  From  then  until 
six  was  a  matter  of  three  hours  more.  A  great 
deal  can  be  accomplished  in  three  hours  with 
flood -water.  The  last  little  jam  "pulled"  just 
about  the  time  the  first  citizen  of  the  west  side 
discovered  that  his  cellar  was  full  of  water. 
When  that  startled  freeman  opened  the  front 
door  to  see  what  was  up,  he  uttered  a  tremendous 
ejaculation;  and  so,  shortly,  came  to  the  construc 
tion  of  a  raft. 

Well,  the  papers  got  out  an  extra  edition  with 
scare-heads  about  "Outrages"  and  "High-hand 
ed  Lawlessness!"  and  factory  owners  by  the 
canals  raised  up  their  voices  in  bitterness  over 
flooded  fire-rooms;  and  property  owners  of  per 
ishable  cellar  goods  howled  about  damage  suits; 
and  the  ordinary  citizen  took  to  bailing  out  the 
hollow  places  of  his  domain.  Toward  nine 
o'clock,  after  the  first  excitement  had  died,  and 
vhe  flash-boards  had  been  indignantly  yanked 
from  their  illegal  places,  a  squadron  of  police 


THE   RIVER-BOSS  71 

went  out  to  hunt  up  the  malefactor.  The  latter 
they  discovered  on  a  boom-pole  directing  the 
sluicing1.  From  this  position  he  declined  to  stir. 
One  fat  policeman  ventured  a  toppling  yard  or 
so  on  the  floating  timber,  threw  his  hands  aloft  in 
loss  of  equilibrium,  and  with  a  mighty  effort  re 
gained  the  shore,  where  he  sat  down,  panting. 
To  the  appeals  of  the  squad  to  come  and  be  ar 
rested,  Jimmy  paid  not  the  slightest  heed.  He 
puffed  periodically  on  his  "meerschaum"  pipe, 
and  directed  the  sluicing.  Through  the  twenty- 
foot  gate  about  a  million  feet  an  hour  passed. 
Thus  it  happened  that  a  little  after  noon  Jimmy 
came  peaceably  ashore  and  gave  himself  up. 

"You  won't  have  no  more  trouble  below,"  he 
observed  to  McGann,  his  lieutenant,  watching  re 
flectively  the  last  logs  shoot  through  the  gate. 
"Just  tie  right  into  her  and  keep  her  hustling." 
Then  he  refilled  his  pipe,  lit  it,  and  approached 
the  expectant  squad. 

At  the  station-house  he  was  interviewed  by  re 
porters.  That  is,  they  asked  questions.  To  only 
one  of  them  did  they  elicit  a  reply. 

"Didn't  you  know  you  were  breaking  the 
law?"  inquired  the  Eagle  man.  "Didn't  you 
know  you'd  be  arrested?" 

"Sure!"  replied  Jimmy,  with  obvious  con 
tempt. 


72  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

The  next  morning  the  court-room  was  crowd 
ed.  Jimmy  pleaded  guilty,  and  was  fined  five 
hundred  dollars  or  ninety  days  in  jail.  To  the 
surprise  of  everybody  he  fished  out  a  tremendous 
roll  and  paid  the  fine.  The  spectators  considered 
it  remarkable  that  a  river-boss  should  carrv  such 

•i 

an  amount.  They  had  not  been  present  at  the  in 
terview  between  Jimmy  and  his  principal  the 
night  before. 

The  latter  stood  near  the  door  as  the  little  man 
came  out. 

"Jimmy,"  said  Mr.  Daly,  distinctly,  so  that 
everyone  could  hear,  "I  am  extremely  sorry  to 
see  you  in  this  trouble ;  but  perhaps  it  may  prove 
a  lesson  to  you.  Next  time  you  must  understand 
that  you  are  not  supposed  to  exceed  your  instruc 
tions." 

Thus  did  the  wily  Daly  publicly  disclaim  his 
liability. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jimmy,  meekly.  "Did  you  get 
the  logs  in  time,  Mr.  Daly?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily.  Then,  for 
the  first  and  only  time,  the  black  and  white  mask 
of  Jimmy's  inscrutability  melted  away.  In  his 
left  eye  appeared  a  faint  glimmer.  Then  the 
left  eyelid  slowly  descended. 


V 

THE    FIFTH    TV  AY 

The  prophet  confessed  four  things  as  beyond  his 
understanding — the  way  of  an  eagle  in  the  air, 
the  way  of  a  serpent  upon  the  rock,  the  way  of 
a  ship  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  the  way  of 
a  man  with  a  maid — but  we  of  modern  times 
must  add  a  fifth,  and  that  is  the  way  of  justice. 
For  often  a  blunderer  caught  red-handed  escapes 
with  slight  punishment,  while  the  clever  man 
who  transgresses,  yet  conceals  his  transgression 
craftily,  pays  at  the  end  of  a  devious  sequence 
with  his  life.  Of  this  fashion  was  the  death  of 
Regis  Brugiere. 

It  happened  that  in  the  fall  of  the  year  two 
strangers  came  to  Ste.  Jeanne  for  the  purpose  of 
shooting  grouse,  and  Regis  Brugiere  hired  him 
self  to  them  as  guide.  His  duties  were  not 
many.  He  had  simply  to  drive  them  from  one 
hardwood  belt  to  another.  But  in  his  leisure  he 
often  followed  them  about,  and  so  fell  in  love 
with  Jim. 

73 


74  BLAZED   TRAIL,   STORIES 

Jiin  was  a  black-and-white  setter  dog.  Regis 
Brugiere  watched  him  as  he  trotted  carefully 
through  the  woods,  his  four  legs  working  like 
pistons,  his  head  high,  his  soft,  intelligent  eyes 
spying  for  the  likely  cover.  Then  when  he 
caught  a  faint  whiff  of  the  game,  he  would  stop 
short,  and  look  around,  and  wag  his  tail.  Not 
one  step  would  he  take  toward  assuring  his  point 
until  the  man  had  struggled  through  the  thicket 
to  his  side.  Thus  his  master  obtained  many 
shots  at  birds  flushing  wild  before  the  dog  which 
otherwise  he  would  not  have  had. 

But  when  the  bird  lay  well,  then  Jim  would 
tread  carefully  forward  as  though  on  eggs,  until, 
his  nostrils  filled  with  the  warm  body-scent,  he 
stood  rigid,  a  living  statue  of  beauty.  A  mo 
ment  of  breathless  excitement  ensued.  With  a 
burst  of  sound  the  bird  roared  away.  There  fol 
lowed  the  quick  crack  of  the  fowling-piece,  a 
cloud  of  feathers  in  the  air,  a  long  slanting  fall. 
Jim  looked  up,  eager  but  self -controlled. 

"Fetch,  Jim,"  said  the  man. 

At  once  the  dog  bounded  away,  to  return  after 
a  moment  in  the  pride  of  an  army  with  banners, 
carrying  the  grouse  daintily  between  his  jaws. 

Or  the  shot  failed.  Jim  waited  until  he  heard 
the  click  of  the  gun  as  its  breech  closed  after  re- 


THE   FIFTH    WAY  75> 

loading,  then  moved  forward  with  well-bred  re 
straint  to  sniff  long  and  inquiringly  where  the 
bird  had  been. 

These  things  Regis  Brugiere  saw,  following 
the  hunt  through  the  thickets,  so  that  he  broke 
the  tenth  commandment  and  coveted  Jim  with 
a  great  love.  He  worshipped  the  dog's  aloof 
dignity,  his  gentlemanly  demeanour  of  unhasting 
grace  in  the  woods,  his  well-bred  far-away  gaze 
as  he  sat  on  his  haunches  staring  into  the  dis 
tance. 

So  Regis  Brugiere  stole  Jim,  the  black-and- 
white  setter,  and  concealed  him  well.  To  him 
it  was  a  little  thing  to  do.  He  did  not  know 
Jim's  value,  for  in  the  north  country  a  dog  is  a 
dog.  After  the  strangers  had  gone,  bewailing 
their  loss,  Regis  Brugiere  loaded  a  toboggan 
with  supplies  and  traps  and  set  out  into  the  north 
west  on  his  annual  trapping  excursion.  He 
took  with  him  Jim,  by  now  entirely  accustomed 
to  his  new  master. 

The  two  journeyed  far  through  the  forest, 
over  many  rivers  and  muskegs,  through  many 
swamps  and  ranges  of  hills.  Regis  Brugiere 
drew  the  toboggan  after  him.  The  task  should 
have  been  Jim's,  but  to  the  trapper  that  would 
have  seemed  like  harnessing  Ignace  St.  Cloud, 


76  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

the  seigneur  of  Ste.  Jeanne,  to  an  apple-cart. 
So  Jim  ranged  at  large  in  diagonals  having  a 
good  time,  while  the  man  enjoyed  himself  by 
watching  the  animal.  In  due  course  they  came 
to  a  glade  through  which  ran  a  soggy,  choked, 
little  spring-creek.  Here  Regis  Brugiere  kicked 
off  his  snow-shoes  with  an  air  of  finality.  Here 
he  erected  a  cabin,  and  established  himself  and 
Jim. 

Over  a  circumference  of  forty  miles  then  he 
set  his  traps,  for  the  beaver,  the  mink,  the  fox, 
the  fisher,  the  muskrat,  and  the  other  fur-bearing 
animals  of  the  north.  At  regular  intervals  he 
visited  these  traps  one  after  the  other,  crunch 
ing  swiftly  along  on  his  snow-shoes.  Jim  always 
accompanied  him.  When  the  snow  was  deep, 
he  wallowed  painfully  after  in  the  tracks  made 
by  Regis  Brugiere.  When  it  was  not  so  deep, 
he  looked  for  grouse  or  ptarmigan,  investigated 
many  strange  things,  or  ran  at  large  over  the 
frozen  surfaces  of  the  little  lakes. 

At  the  trapping-places  Jim  had  to  stay  be 
hind.  The  man  left  with  him  his  capote  and 
snow-shoes,  which  Jim  imagined  himself  to  be 
guarding  faithfully.  Thus  he  was  satisfied. 

Then  on  the  return  journey  the  two  had  fun. 
Regis  Brugiere  liked  to  pick  Jim  up  and  throw 


THE   FIFTH    WAY  77 

him  bodily  into  the  deepest  snow.  Jim  liked  to 
have  him  do  so,  and  would  disappear  with  an 
ecstatic  yelp.  In  a  moment  he  would  burst  out 
of  the  drift  and  would  dance  about  on  the  tips 
of  his  toes  growling  fiercely  in  mock  deprecation 
of  a  repetition  for  which  he  hoped.  These  were 
the  only  occasions  in  which  Jim  relaxed  his 
solemnity.  At  all  other  times  his  liquid  brown 
eyes  were  mournful  with  the  tempered,  delicious 
sorrow  of  affection. 

In  the  woods  Jim  acquired  bad  habits.  He 
reverted  to  the  original  dog.  Finding  that 
Regis  Brugiere  paid  little  attention  to  the  grouse 
so  carefully  pointed,  Jim  resolved  to  hunt  on  his 
own  account.  At  first  his  conscience  hurt  him 
so  that  the  act  amounted  to  sin.  But  afterward 
the  delighted  applause  of  his  new  master  reas 
sured  him.  He  crouched,  he  trailed,  he  flushed, 
he  chased,  he  broke  all  the  commandments  of  a 
sporting-dog's  morality.  In  this  was  demorali 
sation,  but  also  great  profit.  For  Jim  came  to 
be  an  adept  at  surprising  game  in  the  snow. 
His  point  now  became  exactly  what  it  used  to  be 
in  the  primordial  dog — a  pause  of  preparation 
before  the  spring.  Jim  was  beautifully  inde 
pendent.  Except  in  the  matter  of  delicacies,  he 
supported  himself. 


78  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

But  one  thing  he  knew  not,  and  that  was  the 
deer.  To  him  they  were  as  horses  or  sheep.  He 
could  not  understand,  nor  did  he  care  greatly, 
why  they  should  flee  so  suddenly  when  he  ap 
peared.  So  Regis  Brugiere  tried  to  teach  him, 
but  vainly.  Thus  it  happened  that  often  Jim 
had  to  be  left  at  home,  for  to  a  solitary  trapper 
the  deer  is  a  necessity.  There  is  in  him  food  and 
clothing. 

At  such  times  Regis  Brugiere  was  accustomed 
to  pile  high  the  fireplace  with  wood  in  order  that 
his  friend  might  be  comfortable  during  his  ab 
sence.  Then  he  would  leave  the  dog  disconso 
late.  On  the  first  of  these  occasions  Jim  effected 
an  escape,  and  rejoined  his  master  at  a  distance 
with  every  symptom  of  delight.  Regis  Bru 
giere,  returning  disgusted,  found  the  cabin-door 
sprawled  wide :  Jim  had  learned  to  pull  it  toward 
him  with  his  teeth.  Shortly  the  trapper  was 
forced  to  make  a  latch  so  that  the  dog  could  not 
pull  it  ajar  by  the  strength  of  his  jaws  and  legs. 
Perhaps  it  is  well  here  to  explain  that  ordinarily 
such  a  cabin-door  merely  jams  shut  against  the 
spring  of  a  wand  of  hickory. 

Now  mark  you  this:  If  Regis  Brugiere  had 
not  coveted  and  stolen  the  dog  Jim,  he  would  not 
have  been  forced  to  construct  the  latch;  without 


THE   FIFTH   WAY  79 

the  latch,  he  could  easily  have  pushed  open  the 
door  by  leaning  against  it;  if  he  could  have 
pushed  open  the  door,  all  would  have  been  well 
with  both  himself  and  Jim.  And  in  this  we 
admire  the  wonder  of  the  fifth  way — the  way  of 
justice  by  which  a  man's  life  is  bartered  for  a 
fault. 

One  morning  in  the  midwinter,  when  it  was 
very  cold  with  seventy  degrees  of  frost,  Regis 
Brugiere  resolved  to  hunt  the  deer.  As  usual, 
he  filled  the  fireplace,  spread  a  robe  for  Jim's 
accommodation,  thrust  the  latch-string  through 
the  small  hole  bored  for  that  purpose,  and  set 
out  in  the  forest.  When  he  reached  the  swamp 
edge,  he  removed  his  snow-shoes  and  began  care 
fully  to  pick  his  way  along  the  fallen  tops. 
Mounting  on  a  snow-covered  root,  he  thrust  his 
right  foot  down  into  an  unsuspected  crevice, 
stumbled,  and  fell  forward  on  his  face. 

When  the  blur  of  pain  had  cleared  away,  and 
he  was  able  to  take  stock  of  what  had  happened, 
Regis  Brugiere  found  that  he  had  snapped  the 
bones  of  his  leg  short  off  below  the  knee. 

The  first  part  of  his  journey  home  to  the  cabin 
was  one  of  profanity;  the  second  of  prayer;  the 
third  of  grim  silence.  In  the  first  he  lost  his 
rifle;  in  the  second  his  courage;  in  the  third  his 


80  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

knowledge  of  what  was  about  him.  Like  a  crip 
pled  rabbit  he  dragged  himself  over  the  snow, 
a  single  black  spot  against  the  whiteness.  The 
dark  forest-trees  gathered  curiously  about  his 
wavering  consciousness  to  look  down  on  him  in 
aloof  compassion.  And  over  him,  invisible,  pal 
pable,  hovered  the  dreadful  north-country  cold, 
waiting  to  stoop. 

Regis  Brugiere,  by  the  grace  of  a  woodsman's 
perseverance  and  the  instinct  of  a  wild  creature, 
gained  at  last  the  clearing  in  which  his  cabin 
stood.  Behind  him  wavered  a  long,  deep- 
gouged  furrow-trail,  pitiful  attest  of  suffering. 
His  strength  was  water,  but  he  was  home.  Af 
ter  a  long  time  he  reached  the  door,  and  rested. 
The  incident  was  cruel,  but  it  was  only  one  of 
many  in  a  cruel  way  of  life. 

The  twilight  was  coming  down  with  throng 
ing  mysterious  voices.  Among  them  clamoured 
fiercely  the  voice  of  the  cold.  Regis  Brugiere 
felt  its  breath  on  his  heart,  and,  in  alarm,  broke 
through  the  apathy  of  his  condition.  It  was 
time  to  recall  his  forces,  to  enter  where  could  be 
found  provisions  and  warmth.  Painfully  he 
turned  on  his  right  side  and  prepared  to  reach 
the  latch-string.  His  first  movement  brought 
him  an  agony  to  be  endured  only  with  teeth  and 


THE   FIFTH   WAY  81 

eyes  closed,  only  by  summoning  to  the  minute 
task  of  thrusting  his  hand  upward  along  the 
rough  door  all  the  forces  of  his  being  down  to 
the  last  shred  of  vitality.  At  once  the  indomita 
ble  spirit  of  the  woods-runner  answered  the  call. 
Regis  Brugiere  concentrated  his  will  on  a  pin 
point.  Like  a  sprinter  his  volition  was  fixed  on 
a  goal,  beyond  which  lay  collapse. 

Inch  by  inch  the  hand  kept  on,  blindly  grop 
ing.  It  reached  the  latch-string;  passed  it  by. 

Then,  like  a  flame  before  it  expires,  the  spirit 
of  Regis  Brugiere  blazed  out.  With  strange 
contortions  of  the  body  and  writhings  of  the  face 
his  form  came  upright,  the  arm  still  reaching. 
So  it  swayed  for  a  moment,  then  fell.  The 
man's  will-power  ran  from  him  in  a  last  supreme 
effort.  Twice  more  he  struggled  blindly,  but 
the  efforts  were  feeble.  At  last  with  a  sigh  he 
gave  himself  to  the  cold,  which  had  been  wait 
ing.  And  the  cold  was  kind.  Regis  Brugiere 
fell  asleep. 

Five  days  later  Jim,  the  black-and-white  set 
ter-dog,  ceased  his  restless  wanderings  to  and 
fro,  ceased  trying  to  leap  to  the  oiled  window 
beyond  which  lay  the  forest  and  food  in  abund 
ance,  ceased  vain  clawings  below  the  shelf -high 
supplies  of  flour  and  bacon,  to  curl  himself  by 


=82  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

the  door  as  near  as  possible  to  the  master  who 
lay  without.  There  he  starved,  dreaming  in  a 
merciful  torpor  of  partridges  in  the  snow.  Thus 
was  the  way  of  justice  fulfilled  in  the  case  of 
Regis  Brugiere  and  the  setter-dog  Jim. 


VI 

THE    LIFE    OF    THE    WINDS    OF    HEAVEN 


Barbara  hesitated  long  between  the  open-work 
stockings  and  the  plain-silk,  but  finally  decided 
on  the  former.  Then  she  vouchsafed  a  pleased 
little  smile  to  her  pleasant  little  image  in  the 
mirror,  and  stepped  through  the  door  into  the 
presence  of  her  aunt.  The  aunt  was  appropri 
ately  astonished.  This  was  the  first  time  Bar 
bara  had  spread  her  dainty  chiffon  wings  in  the 
air  of  the  great  north  woods.  Strangely,  daintily 
incongruous  she  looked  now  against  the  rough 
walls  of  the  cabin,  against  the  dark  fringe  of  the 
forest  beyond  the  door. 

Barbara  was  a  petite  little  body  with  petite 
little  airs  of  babylike  decision.  She  knew  that 
her  greatest  attraction  lay  in  the  strange  back 
ward  poise  of  her  head,  bringing  her  chin, 
pointed  and  adorable,  to  the  tilt  of  maddening 

83 


S4t  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

charm.  She  was  perfectly  aware,  too,  of  her 
very  full  red  lips,  the  colour  of  cherries,  but  with 
the  satiny  finish  of  the  peach;  and  she  could  not 
remain  blind  to  the  fact  that  her  light  hair  and 
her  velvet-black  eyes  were  in  rare  and  delicious 
contrast.  All  these  things,  and  more,  Barbara 
knew  because  a  dozen  times  a  day  her  mirror 
swore  them  true.  That  she  was  elusively,  teas- 
ingly,  judicially,  calmly  distracting  she  knew 
because,  ever  since  she  could  remember,  men 
had  told  her  so  with  varying  degrees  of  bitter 
humour.  She  accepted  the  fact,  and  carried 
herself  in  all  circumstances  as  a  queen  surrounded 
by  an  indefinite  number  of  rights  matured  to  her 
selection. 

After  her  plain  old  backwoods  aunt  had  ad 
mired  and  exclaimed  over  the  butterfly  so  unex 
pectedly  developed  from  the  brown  tailor-made 
chrysalis,  Barbara  determined  to  take  a  walk. 
She  knew  that  over  through  that  cool,  fascinating 
forest,  only  a  half-mile  away,  dwelt  the  Adamses. 
The  Adamses,  too,  were  only  of  the  woods  peo 
ple,  but  they  were  human,  and  chiffon  was 
chiffon,  in  the  wilderness  as  in  the  towns.  So 
Barbara  announced  her  intention,  and  stepped 
into  the  sunlight. 

The  parasol  completed  her  sense  of  happiness. 


LIFE  OF   THE   WINDS  85 

She  raised  it,  and  slanted  it  over  her  shoulder, 
and  drew  one  of  its  round  tips  across  her  face, 
playing  out  to  herself  a  pretty  little  comedy  as 
she  sauntered  deliberately  down  the  trail  be 
tween  the  stumps  and  tangled  blackberry  vines 
of  the  clearing.  She  tilted  her  chin,  and  glanced 
shyly  from  beneath  the  brim  of  her  big  hat  at 
the  solemn  stumps,  and  looked  just  as  pretty  as 
she  possibly  could  for  the  benefit  of  the  bold, 
noisy  finches.  With  her  light  summer  dress  and 
her  picture-hat  and  her  open-work  stockings 
and  her  absurd  little  high-heeled,  silver-buckled 
shoes  she  had  somehow  regained  the  feminine 
self-confidence  which  her  thick  boots  and  sober 
brown  woods  dress  had  filched  from  her.  For 
the  first  time  in  this  whimsical  visit  to  a  new 
environment  she  was  completely  happy.  Dear 
little  Barbara;  she  was  only  eighteen. 

Pretty  soon  the  trail  entered  the  great,  cool, 
green  forest.  Barbara  closed  her  parasol  and 
carried  it  under  one  arm,  while  with  the  same 
hand  she  swept  her  skirt  clear  of  the  ground. 
She  was  now  a  grande  marquise  in  the  Forest  of 
Fontainebleau.  Through  little  round  holes  in 
the  undergrowth  she  could  see  away  down  be 
tween  the  trees  to  dashes  of  sunlight  and  green 
shadows.  Always  Barbara  conducted  herself  as 


86  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

though,  in  the  vista,  a  cavalier  was  about  to  ap 
pear,  who  would  sweep  off  his  plumed  hat  in  a 
bow  of  knightly  adoration.  She  practised  the 
courtesy  in  return,  sinking  on  one  little  high- 
pointed  heel  with  a  downward  droop  of  her 
pretty  head  and  an  upward  cast  of  her  pretty 
eyes. 

"Out,  c'est  un  reve,  un  reve  doux  d'amour" 

she  hummed,  as  the  hem  of  her  outspread  skirt 
just  swept  the  ground. 

"Phew!"  came  a  most  terrible,  dreadful  sound 
from  the  thicket  close  at  hand. 

Barbara  dropped  her  parasol,  and  clasped  her 
heart  with  both  hands,  and  screamed.  From 
the  thicket  two  slender  ears  pointed  inquiringly 
toward  her,  two  wide  brown  eyes  stared  fright 
ened  into  hers,  a  delicate  nose  dilated  with  terror. 
"Phew!"  snorted  the  deer  again,  and  vanished 
in  a  series  of  elastic  stiff-legged  springs. 

"Oh!"  cried  Barbara.  "You  horrid  thing! 
How  you  frightened  me!" 

She  picked  up  her  parasol,  and  resumed  her 
journey  in  some  perturbation  of  mind,  reflecting 
on  the  utter  rudeness  of  the  deer.  Gradually 
the  trail  seemed  to  become  more  difficult.  After 


LIFE   OF   THE   WINDS  87 

a  time  it  was  obstructed  by  the  top  of  a  fallen 
basswood.  Barbara  looked  about  her.  She  was 
not  on  the  trail  at  all. 

This  was  distinctly  annoying.  Barbara  felt 
a  little  resentful  on  account  of  it.  She  gathered 
her  skirts  closely  about  her  ankles,  and  tried  to 
pick  her  way  through  the  undergrowth  to  the 
right.  The  brush  was  exceedingly  difficult  to 
avoid,  and  a  little  patch  of  briers  was  worse. 
Finally  an  ugly  stub  ripped  a  hole  in  the  chiffon 
skirt.  This  was  unbearable.  Barbara  stamped 
her  foot  in  vexation.  She  wanted  to  cry;  and 
fully  made  up  her  mind  to  do  so  as  soon  as  she 
should  have  regained  the  trail.  In  a  little  while 
the  high  beech-ridge  over  which  she  had  been 
travelling  ended  in  a  narrow  cedar-swamp. 
Then  Barbara  did  a  foolish  thing;  she  tried  to 
cross  the  swamp. 

At  first  she  proceeded  circumspectly,  with  an 
eye  to  the  chiffon.  It  was  torn  in  a  dozen  places. 
Then  she  thrust  one  dear  little  slipper  through 
the  moss  into  black  water.  Three  times  the  stiff 
straight  rods  of  the  tamarack  whipped  her 
smartly  across  the  face.  When  finally  she 
emerged  on  the  other  side  of  the  hundred  feet 
of  that  miserable  cedar-swamp,  she  had  ceased 
to  hold  up  the  chiffon  skirt,  and  was  most  vexed. 


88  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

"I  think  you're  just  mean!"  she  cried,  pettishly, 
to  the  still  forest;  and  then  caught  her  breath 
in  the  silence  of  awe. 

The  forest  had  become  suddenly  unfriendly; 
its  kindliness  had  somehow  vanished.  In  all  di 
rections  it  looked  the  same;  straight  towering 
trunks,  saplings,  undergrowth.  It  had  shut  her 
in  with  a  wall  of  green,  and  hurry  in  whatever 
direction  she  would,  Barbara  was  always  inclosed 
in  apparently  the  same  little  cell  of  leaves. 

Frightened,  but  with  determination,  she  com 
menced  to  walk  rapidly  in  the  direction  she  be 
lieved  would  lead  her  out.  The  bushes  now 
caught  at  her  unheeded.  She  tore  through 
briers,  popples,  moose-maples  alike.  The  chif 
fon  was  sadly  marred,  the  picture-hat  stained 
and  awry,  the  brave  little  shoes  with  their  silver 
buckles  and  their  pointed  high  heels  were  dull 
with  wet.  And  suddenly,  as  the  sun  shadows 
began  to  lift  in  the  late  afternoon,  her  deter 
mined  stock  of  fortitude  quite  ran  out.  She 
stopped  short.  All  about  her  were  the  same 
straight  towering  trunks,  the  saplings,  the  un 
dergrowth.  Nothing  had  changed.  It  was 
useless. 

She  dropped  to  the  ground  and  gave  way  to 
her  wild  terror,  weeping  with  the  gulping  sobs 


LIFE   OF   THE   WINDS  89 

of  a  frightened  child,  but  even  in  extremity  dab 
bing  her  eyes  from  time  to  time  with  an  absurd 
tiny  handkerchief  of  drawn-work  border. 
Poor  little  Barbara:  she  was  lost! 


n 

After  a  while,  subtly,  she  felt  that  someone 
was  standing  near  her.  She  looked  up. 

The  somebody  was  a  man.  He  was  young. 
Barbara  saw  three  things — that  he  had  kindly 
gray  eyes,  which  just  now  were  twinkling  at  her 
amusedly;  that  the  handkerchief  about  his  neck 
was  clean;  and  that  the  line  of  his  jaw  was  un 
usually  clear  cut  and  fine.  An  observant  person 
would  have  noticed  further  that  the  young  man 
carried  a  rifle  and  a  pack,  that  he  wore  a  heavily 
laden  belt  about  his  waist,  and  moccasins  on  his 
feet,  that  his  blue-flannel  shirt,  though  clean,  was 
faded,  that  his  skin  was  as  brown  as  pine-bark. 
Barbara  had  no  use  for  such  details.  The  eye 
was  kindly,  the  jaw  was  strong,  the  neatness  in 
dicated  the  gentleman.  And  a  strong,  kindly 
gentleman  was  just  what  poor  little  lost  Bar 
bara  needed  the  most.  Unconsciously  she  tilted 
her  pointed  chin  forward  adorably,  and  smiled. 

"Oh,  now  it's  all  right,  isn't  it?"  said  she. 


90  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

"I  am  glad,"  he  replied,  the  look  of  amuse 
ment  deepening  in  his  gray  eyes.  "And  a  mo 
ment  ago  it  was  all  wrong.  What  was  the  mat 
ter?" 

"I  am  lost,"  answered  Barbara,  contentedly,  as 
one  would  say,  "My  shoes  are  a  little  dusty." 

"That's  bad,"  sympathised  the  other.  "Where 
are  you  lost  from?" 

"The  Adamses'  or  the  Maxwells',  I  don't  know 
which.  I  started  to  go  from  one  to  the  other. 
Then  there  was  the  deer,  and  so  I  got  lost." 

"I  see,"  he  agreed  with  entire  assurance. 
"And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  do  anything.  You  are  to 
take  me  home." 

"To  the  Adamses  or  the  Maxwells?" 

"To  whichever  is  nearest." 

The  young  man  seemed  to  be  debating.  Bar 
bara  glanced  at  his  thoughtful,  strong  face  from 
under  the  edge  of  her  picture-hat,  which  slyly 
she  had  rearranged.  She  liked  his  face.  It  was 
so  good-humoured. 

"It  is  almost  sunset,"  replied  the  youth  at 
length.  "You  can  see  the  shadows  are  low. 
How  do  you  hope  to  push  through  the  woods 
after  dark?  There  are  wild  animals — wolves!" 
he  added,  maliciously. 


LIFE   OF   THE   WINDS  91 

Barbara  looked  up  again  with  sudden  alarm. 

"But  what  shall  we  do?"  she  cried,  less  com 
posedly.  "You  must  take  me  home !" 

"I  can  try,"  said  he,  with  the  resignation  of 
the  man  who  can  but  die. 

The  tone  had  its  effect. 

"What  do  you  advise?"  she  asked. 

"That  we  camp  here,"  he  proposed,  calmly, 
with  an  air  of  finality. 

"Oh!"  dissented  Barbara  in  alarm.  "Never! 
I  am  afraid  of  the  woods!  It  will  be  wet  and 
cold!  I  am  hungry!  My  feet  are  just  sop 
ping!" 

"I  will  watch  all  night  with  my  rifle,"  he  told 
her.  "I  will  fix  you  a  tent,  and  will  cook  you  a 
supper,  and  your  feet  shall  not  be  wet  and  cold 
one  moment  longer  than  you  will." 

"Isn't  your  home  nearer?"  she  asked. 

"My  home  is  where  night  finds  me,"  he  replied. 

Barbara  meditated.  It  was  going  to  be  dread 
ful.  She  knew  she  would  catch  her  death  of 
cold.  But  what  could  she  do  about  it? 

'  You  may  fix  the  wet-feet  part,"  she  assented 
at  last. 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  young  man  with  alac 
rity.  He  unslung  the  pack  from  his  back,  and 
removed  from  the  straps  a  little  axe.  "Now, 


92  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

X  am  not  going  to  be  gone  but  a  moment,"  he 
assured  her,  "and  while  I  am  away,  you  must 
take  off  your  shoes  and  stockings  and  put  these 
on."  He  had  been  fumbling  in  his  pack,  and 
now  produced  a  pair  of  thick  woollen  lumber 
man's  socks. 

Barbara  held  one  at  arm's  length  in  each  hand, 
and  looked  at  them.  Then  she  looked  up  at  the 
young  man.  Then  they  both  laughed. 

While  her  new  protector  was  away,  Barbara 
not  only  made  the  suggested  changes,  but  she 
did  marvels  with  the  chiffon.  Really,  it  did  not 
look  so  bad,  considering. 

When  the  young  man  returned  with  an  arm 
ful  of  hemlock  bark  and  the  slivers  of  a  pine- 
stump,  he  found  her  sitting  bolt  upright  on  a 
log,  her  feet  tucked  under  her.  Before  the  fire 
he  shortly  hung  the  two  webs  of  gossamer  and 
the  two  dear  little  ridiculous  little  high-heeled 
shoes,  with  their  silver  buckles.  Then  in  a  most 
business-like  fashion  he  pitched  a  diminutive 
shelter-tent.  With  equal  expedition  he  built  a 
second  fire  between  two  butternut -logs,  produced 
a  Trying-pan,  and  set  about  supper. 

The  twilight  was  just  falling.  Somehow  the 
great  forest  had  lost  its  air  of  unfriendliness. 
The  birds  were  singing  in  exactly  the  same  way 


LIFE   OF   THE   WINDS  93 

they  used  to  sing  in  the  tiny  woods  of  the  Picni  c 
Grounds.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  in  the  wil 
derness.  The  young  man  moved  here  and  there 
with  accustomed  ease,  tending  his  pot  and  pan, 
feeding  the  fire.  Barbara  watched  him  interest 
edly.  Gradually  the  conviction  gained  on  her 
that  he  was  worth  while,  and  that  he  had  not  once 
glanced  in  her  direction  since  he  had  begun  his 
preparations.  At  the  moment  he  was  engaged 
in  turning  over  sizzling  things  in  the  pan. 

"If  you  please,"  said  Barbara,  with  her  small 
air  of  decision,  "I  am  very  thirsty." 

"You  will  have  to  wait  until  I  go  to  the 
spring,"  replied  the  man  without  stirring. 

Barbara  elevated  her  small  nose  in  righteous 
indignation.     After  a  long  time  she  just  peeped 
in  his  direction.     He  was  laughing  to  himself 
She  hastily  elevated  her  nose  again.     After  all 
it  was  very  lonely  in  the  woods. 

"Supper  is  ready,"  he  announced  after  a  time. 

"I  do  not  think  I  care  for  any,"  she  replied, 
with  dignity.  She  was  very  tired  and  hungry 
and  cross,  and  her  eyes  were  hot. 

"Oh,  yes  you  do,"  he  insisted,  carelessly. 
"Come  now,  before  it  gets  cold." 

"I  tell  you  I  do  not  care  for  any,"  she  re 
turned,  haughtily. 


94  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

For  answer  he  picked  her  up  bodily,  carried 
her  ten  feet,  and  deposited  her  on  another  log. 
Beside  her  lay  a  clean  bit  of  bark  containing  a 
broiled  deer-steak,  toasted  bread,  and  a  cup  of 
tea.  She  struggled  angrily. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  the  man  commanded, 
sternly,  "you  need  food.  You  will  eat  supper, 
now!" 

Barbara  looked  up  at  him  with  wide  eyes. 
Then  she  began  to  eat  the  venison.  By  and  by 
she  remarked,  "You  are  rather  nice,"  and  after 
she  had  drained  the  last  drop  of  tea  she  even 
smiled,  a  trifle  humbly.  "Thank  you,"  said  she. 

It  was  now  dark,  and  the  night  had  stolen  down 
through  the  sentry  trees  to  the  very  outposts  of 
the  fire.  The  man  arranged  the  rubber  blanket 
before  it.  Barbara  sat  upon  the  blanket  and 
leaned  her  back  against  the  log.  He  perched 
above  her,  producing  a  pipe. 

"May  I?"  he  asked. 

Then,  when  he  had  puffed  a  few  moments  in 
quiet  content,  he  inquired:  "How  did  you  come 
to  get  lost?" 

She  told  him. 

"That  was  very  foolish,"  he  scolded,  severely. 
"Don't  you  know  any  better  than  to  go  into  the 
woods  without  your  bearings?  It  was  idiotic!" 


LIFE   OF  THE   WINDS  95 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Barbara,  meekly. 

"Well,  it  was!"  he  insisted,  the  bronze  on  his 
cheek  deepening  a  little. 

She  watched  him  for  some  time,  while  he 
watched  the  flames.  She  liked  to  see  the  light  de 
fining  boldly  the  clean-shaven  outline  of  his  jaw; 
she  liked  to  guess  at  the  fire  of  his  gray  eyes 
beneath  the  shadow  of  his  brow.  Not  once  did 
he  look  toward  her.  Meekly  she  told  herself 
that  this  was  just.  He  was  dreaming  of  larger 
things,  seeing  in  the  coals  pictures  of  that  roman 
tic,  strenuous,  mysterious  life  of  which  he  was  a 
part.  He  had  no  room  in  the  fulness  of  his 
existence  for  such  as  she — she,  silly  little  Bar 
bara,  whose  only  charm  was  a  maddening  fash 
ion  of  pointing  outward  her  adorable  chin.  She 
asked  him  about  it,  this  life  of  the  winds  of 
heaven. 

"Are  you  always  in  the  woods?"  she  inquired. 

"Not  always,"  said  he. 

"But  you  live  in  them  a  great  deal?" 

"Yes." 

"You  must  have  a  great  many  exciting  ad 
ventures." 

"Not  many." 

"Where  did  you  come  from  just  now?" 

"South." 


96  BLAZED   TRAIL    STORIES 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Northwest." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  there?" 

There  ensued  a  slight  pause  before  the 
stranger's  reply.  "Walk  through  the  woods," 
said  he. 

"In  other  words,  it's  none  of  my  business," 
retorted  Barbara,  a  little  tartly. 

"Ah,  but  you  see  it's  not  entirely  mine,"  he 
explained. 

This  offered  a  new  field. 

"Then  you  are  on  a  mission?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  important?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  is  it  going  to  take  you?" 

"Many  years." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Garrett  Stanton." 

"You  are  a  gentleman,  aren't  you?" 

A  flicker  of  amusement  twinkled  subtly  in  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  "I  suppose  you  mean  gently 
bred,  college-educated.  Do  you  think  it's  of  vast 
importance?" 

Barbara  examined  him  reflectively,  her  chin  in 
her  hand,  her  elbow  on  her  knee.  She  looked  at 
his  wavy  hair,  his  kindly,  humorous  gray  eyes, 


LIFE   OF  THE   WINDS  97 

the  straight  line  of  his  fine-cut  nose,  his  firm  lips 
with  the  quaint  upward  twist  of  the  corners,  the 
fine  contour  of  his  jaw. 

"No-o-o,"  she  agreed,  "I  don't  suppose  it  does. 
Only  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman,"  she  added, 
with  delightful  inconsistence.  Stanton  bowed 
gravely  to  the  fire  in  ironic  acknowledgment. 

"Why  don't  you  ever  look  at  me?"  burst  out 
Barbara,  vexed.  "Why  do  you  stare  at  that  hci- 
rid  fire?" 

He  turned  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  In 
a  moment  her  eyes  dropped  before  his  frank  scru 
tiny.  She  felt  the  glow  rising  across  her  fore 
head.  When  she  raised  her  head  again  he  was 
staring  calmly  at  the  fire  as  before,  one  hand 
clasped  under  his  arm,  the  other  holding  the  bowl 
of  his  brier  pipe. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  will  ask  a  few  questions. 
Won't  this  all-night  absence  alarm  your  rela 
tives?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  often  spend  the  night  at  the 
Adamses'.  They  will  think  I  am  there." 

"Parents  are  apt  to  be  anxious." 

"But  mine  are  not  here,  you  see." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Barbara  Lowe." 

He  fell  silent.     Barbara  was  distinctly  piqued. 


98  BLAZED   TKAIL   STORIES 

He  might  have  exhibited  a  more  flattering  in 
terest. 

"Is  that  all  you  want  to  know  about  me?"  she 
cried  in  an  injured  tone. 

"I  know  all  about  you  now.  Listen:  Your 
name  is  Barbara  Lowe;  you  come  from  Detroit, 
where  you  are  not  yet  'out' ;  you  are  an  only  child ; 
and  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age." 

"Why,  who  has  been  telling  you  about  me?" 
cried  Barbara,  astonished. 

Stanton  smiled.  "Nobody,"  he  replied.  "Don't 
you  know  that  we  woodsmen  live  by  our  observa 
tion?  Do  you  see  anything  peculiar  about  that 
tree?" 

Barbara  examined  the  vegetable  in  question 
attentively.  "No,"  she  confessed  at  last. 

"There  is  an  animal  in  it.     Look  again." 

"I  can  see  nothing,"  repeated  Barbara,  after  a 
second  scrutiny. 

Stanton  arose.  Seizing  a  brand  from  the  fire, 
he  rapped  sharply  on  the  trunk.  Then  slowly 
what  had  appeared  to  be  a  portion  of  the  bole 
began  to  disintegrate,  and  in  a  moment  a  drowsy 
porcupine  climbed  rattling  to  a  place  of  safety. 

"That  is  how  I  know  about  you,"  explained  the 
woodsman,  returning  to  the  fire.  "Your  remark 
about  staying  overnight  told  me  that  you  were 


LIFE  OF   THE   WINDS  99 

visiting  the  Maxwells  rather  than  the  Adamses; 
I  knew  the  latter  must  be  relatives,  because  a  girl 
who  wears  pretty  summer  dresses  would  not  visit 
mere  friends  in  the  wilderness;  you  would  get 
tired  of  this  life  in  a  few  weeks,  and  so  will  not 
care  to  stay  longer;  you  wear  your  school-pin 
still,  so  you  are  not  yet  'out' ;  the  maker's  name  in 
your  parasol  caused  me  to  guess  you  from  De 
troit." 

"And  about  my  being  an  only  child?" 

"Well,"  replied  Stanton,  "you  see,  you  have  a 
little  the  manner  of  one  who  has  been  a  trifle " 

"Spoiled!"  finished  Barbara,  with  wicked  em 
phasis. 

Stanton  merely  laughed. 

"That  is  not  nice,"  she  reproved,  with  vast 
dignity. 

A  cry,  inexpressibly  mournful,  quivered  from 
the  woods  close  at  hand. 

"Oh,  what  is  that?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Our  friend  the  porcupine.  Don't  be  fright 
ened." 

Down  through  the  trees  sighed  a  little  /wind. 
"Whoo!  whoo!  whoo!"  droned  an  owl,  monoto 
nously.  The  sparks  from  the  fire  shot  up  and 
eddied.  A  chill  was  in  the  air.  Barbara's  eyes 
grew  heavier  and  heavier.  She  tucked  her  feet 


100  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

under  her  arid  expanded  in  the  warmth  like  a  fire 
side  kitten.  Then,  had  she  known  it,  the  man 
was  looking  at  her,  looking  at  her  with  a  strange, 
wistful  tenderness  in  his  gray  eyes.  Dear,  harm 
less,  innocent  little  Barbara,  who  had  so  confid 
ingly  trusted  in  his  goodness ! 

"Come,  little  girl,"  he  said,  softly,  at  last. 

He  arose  and  held  out  his  hand.  Awakened 
from  her  abstraction,  she  looked  at  him  with  a 
faint  smile  and  eyes  from  which  all  coquetry  had 
gone,  leaving  only  the  child. 

"Come,"  he  repeated,  "time  to  turn  in." 

She  arose  dutifully.  The  little  tent  really 
looked  inviting.  The  balsam  bed  proved  luxuri 
ous,  soft  as  feathers. 

"When  you  are  ready,"  he  told  her,  "let  me 
know.  I  want  to  open  the  tent-flap  for  the  sake 
of  warmth." 

The  soft  woollen  blanket  was  very  grateful. 
When  the  flap  was  open,  Barbara  found  that  a 
second  fire  had  been  built  with  a  backing  of  green 
logs  so  arranged  as  to  reflect  the  heat  directly  into 
her  shelter. 

She  was  very  sleepy,  yet  for  a  long  time  she  lay 
awake.  The  noises  of  the  woods  approached 
mysteriously,  and  drew  about  the  little  camp  their 
mystic  circle.  Some  of  them  were  exceedingly 


LIFE  OF  THE   WINDS  101 

terrifying,  but  Barbara  did  not  mind  them,  for  he 
sat  there,  his  strong,  graceful  figure  silhouetted 
against  the  light,  smoking  his  pipe  in  contempla 
tion.  Barbara  watched  him  for  a  long  time,  un 
til  finally  the  firelight  blurred,  and  the  great,  sol 
emn  shadows  stopped  dancing  across  the  forest, 
and  she  dozed. 

Hours  later,  as  it  seemed,  some  trifling  sound 
awakened  her.  The  heat  still  streamed  grate 
fully  into  the  tiny  shelter;  the  solemn  shadows 
still  danced  across  the  forest;  the  contemplative 
figure  still  stared  into  the  embers,  strongly  sil 
houetted  by  the  firelight.  A  tender  compunction 
stole  into  Barbara's  tender  little  heart. 

"The  poor  dear,"  said  she,  "he  has  no  place  to 
sleep.  He  is  guarding  me  from  the  dangers  of 
the  forest."  Which  was  quite  ridiculous,  as  any 
woodsman  will  know. 

Her  drowsy  eyes  watched  him  wistfully — her 
mystery,  her  hero  of  romance.  Again  the  fire 
blurred,  again  the  solemn  shadows  paused.  A 
last  thought  shaped  itself  in  Barbara's  conscious 
ness. 

"Why,  he  must  be  very  old,"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "He  must  be  twenty-six." 

So  she  fell  asleep. 


102  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 


III 

Barbara  awoke  to  the  sun  and  the  crisp  morn 
ing  air  and  a  delightful  feeling  that  she  had  slept 
well  and  had  not  been  uncomfortable  at  all.  The 
flap  of  the  tent  was  discreetly  closed.  When 
ready  she  peeped  through  the  crack  and  saw 
Stanton  bending  over  the  fire. 

In  a  moment  he  straightened  and  approached 
the  tent.  When  within  a  few  feet  he  paused. 
Through  the  hollow  of  his  hands  he  cried  out  the 
long,  musical,  morning  call  of  the  woodsman. 

"R-o-o-oll  out!"  he  cried.  The  forest  took  up 
the  sound  in  dying  modulations. 

For  answer  Barbara  threw  aside  the  tent-flap 
and  stepped  into  the  sun. 

"Good-morning,"  said  she. 

"Salut!"  he  replied.  "Come  and  I  will  show 
you  the  spring." 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  offer  you  a  better 
variety  for  your  breakfast.  It  is  only  the  sup 
per  over  again,"  he  explained,  after  she  had  re 
turned,  and  had  perched  like  a  fluffy  bird  of 
paradise  on  the  log.  Her  cheeks  were  very  pink 
from  the  cold  water,  and  her  eyes  were  very 


LIFE   OF  THE   WINDS  103 

beautiful  from  the  dregs  of  dreams,  and  her  hair 
very  glittering  from  the  kissing  of  the  early  sun. 
And,  wonderful  to  say,  she  forgot  to  thrust  out 
her  pointed  chin  in  the  fashion  so  entirely 
adorable. 

She  ate  with  relish,  for  the  woods-hunger  was 
hers.  Stanton  said  nothing.  The  time  was 
pregnant  with  unspoken  things.  All  the  charm 
ing  elements  of  the  little  episode  were  crystallis 
ing  for  them,  and  instinctively  Barbara  felt  that 
in  a  few  moments  she  would  be  compelled  to  read 
their  meaning. 

At  last  the  man  said,  without  stirring: 

"Well,  I  suppose  we'd  better  be  going." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  replied. 

They  sat  there  some  time  longer,  staring  ab 
stractedly  at  the  kindly  green  forest;  then  Stan- 
ton  abruptly  arose  and  began  to  construct  his 
pack.  The  girl  did  not  move. 

"Come,"  he  said  at  last. 

She  arose  obediently. 

"Follow  close  behind  me,"  he  advised. 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

They  set  off  through  the  greenery.  It  opened 
silently  before  them.  Barbara  looked  back.  It 
had  already  closed  silently  behind  them,  shutting 
out  the  episode  forever.  The  little  camp  had 


104  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

ceased  to  exist ;  the  great,  ruthless,  calm  forest  had 
reclaimed  its  own.     Nothing  was  left. 

Nothing  was  left  but  the  memory  and  the 
dream — yes,  and  the  Beginning.  Barbara  knew 
it  must  be  that — the  Beginning.  He  would 
come  to  see  her.  She  would  wear  the  chiffon, 
another  chiffon,  altogether  glorious.  She  would 
sit  on  the  highest  root  of  the  old  elm,  and  he 
would  lie  at  her  feet.  Then  he  could  tell  her  of 
the  enchanted  land,  of  the  life  of  the  winds  of 
heaven.  He  would  be  her  knight,  to  plunge  into 
the  wilderness  on  the  Quest,  returning  always  to 
her.  The  picture  became  at  once  inexpressibly 
dear  to  her. 

Then  she  noticed  that  he  had  stopped,  and  was 
looking  at  her  in  deprecation,  and  was  holding 
aside  the  screen  of  moose-maples.  Beyond  she 
could  see  the  familiar  clearing,  and  the  smoke 
from  the  Maxwell  cabin. 

She  had  slept  almost  within  sight  of  her  own 
doorstep. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  was  saying.  "I  meant 
it  only  as  an  interesting  little  adventure.  It  has 
been  harmless  enough,  surely — to  you." 

His  eyes  were  hungry.  Barbara  could  not 
find  words. 

"Good-by,"  he  concluded.     "Good-by.     You 


LIFE   OF   THE   WINDS  105 

will  forgive  me  in  time — or  forget,  which  is  much 
the  same.  Believe  me,  if  I  have  offended  you, 
my  punishment  is  going  to  be  severe.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  said  Barbara,  a  little  breathlessly. 
She  had  already  forgotten  the  trick.  She  could 
think  only  that  the  forest,  the  unfriendly  forest, 
was  about  to  recall  her  son. 

"Good-by,"  he  repeated  again.  He  should 
have  gone,  but  did  not.  The  situation  became 
strained. 

"When  are  you  coming  to  see  me?"  she  in 
quired  at  length.  "I  shall  be  here  two  weeks 

yet." 

"Never,"  he  replied. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  after  a  mo 
ment. 

"After  Painted  Rock,  the  wilderness,"  he  ex 
plained,  almost  bitterly,  "the  wilderness  and  soli 
tude  for  many  years — forever!" 

"Don't  go  until  to-morrow,"  she  urged. 

"I  must." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  must  be  at  Painted  Rock  by  Fri 
day,  and  to  reach  it  I  must  travel  fast  and 
long." 

"And  if  you  do  not?" 

"My  mission  fails,"  he  replied. 


106  BLAZED   TRAIL   STORIES 

They  stood  there  silent.  Barbara  dug  tiny 
holes  with  the  tip  of  her  parasol. 

"And  that  is  ruin?"  she  asked  softly,  without 
looking  up. 

"I  have  struggled  hard  for  many  years.  The 
result  is  this  chance." 

"I  see,"  she  replied,  bending  her  head  lower. 
"It  would  be  a  very  foolish  thing  for  you  to  stay, 
then,  wouldn't  it?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"But  you  are  going  to,  aren't  you?"  she  went 
on  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible.  "You  must  not 
go  like  that.  I  ask  you  to  stay." 

Again  the  pause. 

"I  cannot,"  he  replied. 

She  looked  up.  He  was  standing  erect  and 
tall,  his  face  set  in  the  bronze  lines  of  a  resolution, 
his  gray  eyes  levelled  straight  and  steady  beyond 
her  head.  Instantly  her  own  spirit  flashed. 

"I  think  now  you'd  better  go!"  said  she  su 
perbly. 

They  faced  each  other  for  a  moment.  Then 
Barbara  dropped  her  head  again,  extending  her 
hand. 

"You  do  not  know,"  she  whispered,  "I  have 
much  to  forgive." 

He  hesitated,  then  touched  the  tips  of  her  fin- 


LIFE   OF  THE   WINDS  107 

gers  with  his  lips.  She  did  not  look  up.  With  a 
gesture,  which  she  did  not  see,  he  stooped  to  his 
pack  and  swung  into  the  woods. 

Barbara  stood  motionless.  Not  a  line  of  her 
figure  stirred.  Only  the  chiffon  parasol  dropped 
suddenly  to  the  ground. 


STORIES  OF  THE  WILD  LIFE 


THE    GIRL    WHO    GOT    RATTLED 

This  is  one  of  the  stories  of  Alfred.  There  are 
many  of  them  still  floating  around  the  West,  for 
Alfred  was  in  his  time  very  well  known.  He  was 
a  little  man,  and  he  was  bashful.  That  is  the 
most  that  can  be  said  against  him ;  but  he  was  very 
little  and  very  bashful.  When  on  horseback  his 
legs  hardly  reached  the  lower  body-line  of  his 
mount,  and  only  his  extreme  agility  enabled  him 
to  get  on  successfully.  When  on  foot,  strangers 
were  inclined  to  call  him  "sonny."  In  company 
he  never  advanced  an  opinion.  If  things  did  not 
go  according  to  his  ideas,  he  reconstructed  the 
ideas,  and  made  the  best  of  it — only  he  could  make 
the  most  efficient  best  of  the  poorest  ideas  of  any 
man  on  the  plains.  His  attitude  was  a  perpetual 
sidling  apology.  It  has  been  said  that  Alfred 
killed  his  men  diffidently,  without  enthusiasm,  as 
though  loth  to  take  the  responsibility,  and  this  in 

the  pioneer  days  on  the  plains  was  either  frivol- 

111 


112  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

ous  affectation,  or  else — Alfred.  With  women 
he  was  lost.  Men  would  have  staked  their  last 
ounce  of  dust  at  odds  that  he  had  never  in  his  life 
made  a  definite  assertion  of  fact  to  one  of  the  op 
posite  sex.  When  it  became  absolutely  neces 
sary  to  change  a  woman's  preconceived  notions  as 
to  what  she  should  do — as,  for  instance,  discour 
aging  her  riding  through  quicksand — he  would 
persuade  somebody  else  to  issue  the  advice.  And 
he  would  cower  in  the  background  blushing  his 
absurd  little  blushes  at  his  second-hand  temerity. 
Add  to  this  narrow,  sloping  shoulders,  a  soft 
voice,  and  a  diminutive  pink-and-white  face. 

But  Alfred  could  read  the  prairie  like  a  book. 
He  could  ride  anything,  shoot  accurately,  was  at 
heart  afraid  of  nothing,  and  could  fight  like  a 
little  catamount  when  occasion  for  it  really  arose. 
Among  those  who  knew,  Alfred  was  considered 
one  of  the  best  scouts  on  the  plains.  That  is  why 
Caldwell,  the  capitalist,  engaged  him  when  he 
took  his  daughter  out  to  Deadwood. 

Miss  Caldwell  was  determined  to  go  to  Dead- 
wood.  A  limited  experience  of  the  lady's  sort, 
where  they  have  wooden  floors  to  the  tents,  towels 
to  the  tent-poles,  and  expert  cooks  to  the  delecta 
tion  of  the  campers,  had  convinced  her  that 
^'roughing  it"  was  her  favorite  recreation.  So, 


THE   GIRL   WHO   GOT   RATTLED  113- 

of  course,  Caldwell  senior  had,  sooner  or  later,  to 
take  her  across  the  plains  on  his  annual  trip. 
This  was  at  the  time  when  wagon-trains  went  by 
way  of  Pierre  on  the  north,  and  the  South  Fork 
on  the  south.  Incidental  Indians,  of  homicidal 
tendencies  and  undeveloped  ideas  as  to  the  pro 
priety  of  doing  what  they  were  told,  made  things 
interesting  occasionally,  but  not  often.  There 
was  really  no  danger  to  a  good-sized  train. 

The  daughter  had  a  fiance  named  Allen  who 
liked  roughing  it,  too;  so  he  went  along.  He 
and  Miss  Caldwell  rigged  themselves  out  bounti 
fully,  and  prepared  to  enjoy  the  trip. 

At  Pierre  the  train  of  eight  wagons  was  made 
up,  and  they  were  joined  by  Alfred  and  Billy 
Knapp.  These  two  men  were  interesting,  but 
tyrannical  on  one  or  two  points — such  as  getting 
out  of  sight  of  the  train,  for  instance.  They 
were  also  deficient  in  reasons  for  their  tyranny. 
The  young  people  chafed,  and,  finding  Billy 
Knapp  either  imperturbable  or  thick-skinned, 
they  turned  their  attention  to  Alfred.  Allen  an 
noyed  Alfred,  and  Miss  Caldwell  thoughtlessly 
approved  of  Allen.  Between  them  they  suc 
ceeded  often  in  shocking  fearfully  all  the  little 
man's  finer  sensibilities.  If  it  had  been  a  ques 
tion  of  Allen  alone,  the  annoyance  would  soon 


114  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

have  ceased.  Alfred  would  simply  have  bash 
fully  killed  him.  But  because  of  his  innate  cour 
tesy,  which  so  saturated  him  that  his  philosophy 
of  life  was  thoroughly  tinged  by  it,  he  was  silent 
and  inactive. 

There  is  a  great  deal  to  recommend  a  plains 
journey  at  first.  Later,  there  is  nothing  at  all 
to  recommend  it.  It  has  the  same  monotony  as 
a  voyage  at  sea,  only  there  is  less  living  room, 
and,  instead  of  being  carried,  you  must  progress 
to  a  great  extent  by  your  own  volition.  Also  the 
food  is  coarse,  the  water  poor,  and  you  cannot 
bathe.  To  a  plainsman,  or  a  man  who  has  the 
instinct,  these  things  are  as  nothing  in  compari 
son  with  the  charm  of  the  outdoor  life,  and  the 
pleasing  tingling  of  adventure.  But  woman  is 
a  creature  wedded  to  comfort.  She  also  has  a 
strange  instinctive  desire  to  be  entirely  alone 
every  once  in  a  while,  probably  because  her  ex 
periences,  while  not  less  numerous  than  man's,  are 
mainly  psychical,  and  she  needs  occasionally  time 
to  get  "thought  up  to  date."  So  Miss  Caldwell 
began  to  get  very  impatient. 

The  afternoon  of  the  sixth  day  Alfred,  Miss 
Caldwell,  and  Allen  rode  along  side  by  side. 
Alfred  was  telling  a  self-effacing  story  of  ad 
venture,  and  Miss  Caldwell  was  listening  care- 


THE   GIRL   WHO   GOT   RATTLED  115 

lessly  because  she  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Allen 
chaffed  lazily  when  the  fancy  took  him. 

"I  happened  to  have  a  limb  broken  at  the 
time,"  Alfred  was  observing",  parenthetically,  in 
his  soft  tones,  "and  so ' 

"What  kind  of  a  limb?"  asked  the  young  East 
erner,  with  direct  brutality.  He  glanced  with 
a  half -humourous  aside  at  the  girl,  to  whom 
the  little  man  had  been  mainly  addressing  him 
self. 

Alfred  hesitated,  blushed,  lost  the  thread  of  his 
tale,  and  finally  in  great  confusion  reined  back 
his  horse  by  the  harsh  Spanish  bit.  He  fell  to 
the  rear  of  the  little  wagon-train,  where  he  hung 
his  head,  and  went  hot  and  cold  by  turns  in  think 
ing  of  such  an  indiscretion  before  a  lady. 

The  young  Easterner  spurred  up  on  the  right 
of  the  girl's  mount. 

"He's  the  queerest  little  fellow  I  ever  saw!"  he 
observed,  with  a  laugh.  "Sorry  to  spoil  his  story. 
Was  it  a  good  one?" 

"It  might  have  been  if  you  hadn't  spoiled  it," 
answered  the  girl,  flicking  her  horse's  ears  mis 
chievously.  The  animal  danced.  "What  did 
you  do  it  for?" 

"Oh,  just  to  see  him  squirm.  He'll  think 
about  that  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  and  will 


116  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

hardly  dare  look  you  in  the  face  next  time  you 
meet." 

"I  know.  Isn't  he  funny?  The  other  morn 
ing  he  came  around  the  corner  of  the  wagon  and 
caught  me  with  my  hair  down.  I  'wish  you  could 
have  seen  him !" 

She  laughed  gayly  at  the  memory. 

"Let's  get  ahead  of  the  dust,"  she  suggested. 

They  drew  aside  to  the  firm  turf  of  the  prairie 
and  put  their  horses  to  a  slow  lope.  Once 
well  ahead  of  the  canvas-covered  schooners  they 
slowed  down  to  a  walk  again. 

"Alfred  says  we'll  see  them  to-morrow,"  said 
the  girl. 

"See  what?" 

"Why,  the  Hills!  They'll  show  like  a  dark 
streak,  down  past  that  butte  there — what's  its 
name?" 

"Porcupine  Tail." 

"Oh,  yes.  And  after  that  it's  only  three  days. 
Are  you  glad  ?" 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  am.  This  life  is  fun  at  first, 
but  there's  a  certain  monotony  in  making  your 
toilet  where  you  have  to  duck  your  head  because 
you  haven't  room  to  raise  your  hands,  and  this 
barrelled  water  palls  after  a  time.  I  think  I'll 


THE   GIRL   WHO   GOT   RATTLED  117 

be  glad  to  see  a  house  again.  People  like  camp 
ing  about  so  long 

"It  hasn't  gone  back  on  me  yet." 

"Well,  you're  a  man  and  can  do  things." 

"Can't  you  do  things?" 

"You  know  I  can't.  What  do  you  suppose 
they'd  say  if  I  were  to  ride  out  just  that  way  for 
two  miles?  They'd  have  a  fit." 

"Who'd  have  a  fit?  Nobody  but  Alfred,  and 
I  didn't  know  you'd  gotten  afraid  of  him  yet !  I 
say,  just  let's!  We'll  have  a  race,  and  then  come 
right  back."  The  young  man  looked  boyishly 
eager. 

"It  would  be  nice,"  she  mused.  They  gazed 
into  each  other's  eyes  like  a  pair  of  children,  and 
laughed. 

"Why  shouldn't  we?"  urged  the  young  man. 
"I'm  dead  sick  of  staying  in  the  moving  circle  of 
these  confounded  wagons.  What's  the  sense  of 
it  all,  anyway?" 

"Why,  Indians,  I  suppose,"  said  the  girl, 
doubtfully. 

"Indians!"  he  replied,  with  contempt.  "In 
dians!  We  haven't  seen  a  sign  of  one  since  we 
left  Pierre.  I  don't  believe  there's  one  in  the 
vhole  blasted  country.  Besides,  you  know  what 
Alfred  said  at  our  last  camp?" 


118  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

"What  did  Alfred  say?" 

"Alfred  said  he  hadn't  seen  even  a  teepee-trail, 
and  that  they  must  be  all  up  hunting  buffalo. 
Besides  that,  you  don't  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  your  father  would  take  you  all  this  way  to 
Dead  wood  just  for  a  lark,  if  there  was  the  slight 
est  danger,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  made  him." 

She  looked  out  over  the  long  sweeping  descent 
to  which  they  were  coming,  and  the  long  sweep 
ing  ascent  that  lay  beyond.  The  breeze  and  the 
sun  played  with  the  prairie  grasses,  the  breeze 
riffling  them  over,  and  the  sun  silvering  their 
under  surfaces  thus  exposed.  It  was  strangely 
peaceful,  and  one  almost  expected  to  hear  the 
hum  of  bees  as  in  a  New  England  orchard.  In 
it  all  was  no  sign  of  life. 

"We'd  get  lost,"  she  said,  finally. 

"Oh,  no,  we  wouldn't!"  he  asserted  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  the  amateur  plainsman.  "I've  got 
that  all  figured  out.  You  see,  our  train  is  going 
on  a  line  with  that  butte  behind  us  and  the  sun. 
So  if  we  go  ahead,  and  keep  our  shadows  just 
pointing  to  the  butte,  we'll  be  right  in  their  line 
of  march." 

He  looked  to  her  for  admiration  of  his  clever 
ness.  She  seemed  convinced.  She  agreed,  and 


THE   GIRL   WHO   GOT   RATTLED  119 

sent  him  back  to  her  wagon  for  some  article  of 
invented  necessity.  While  he  was  gone  she 
slipped  softly  over  the  little  hill  to  the  right, 
cantered  rapidly  over  two  more,  and  slowed  down 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  One  alone  could 
watch  the  directing  shadow  as  well  as  two.  She 
was  free  and  alone.  It  was  the  one  thing  she 
had  desired  for  the  last  six  days  of  the  long  plains 
journey,  and  she  enjoyed  it  now  to  the  full.  No 
one  had  seen  her  go.  The  drivers  droned  stu 
pidly  along,  as  was  their  wont;  the  occupants  of 
the  wagons  slept,  as  was  their  wont;  and  the 
diminutive  Alfred  was  hiding  his  blushes  behind 
clouds  of  dust  in  the  rear,  as  was  not  his  wont  at 
all.  He  had  been  severely  shocked,  and  he 
might  have  brooded  over  it  all  the  afternoon,  if  a 
discovery  had  not  startled  him  to  activity. 

On  a  bare  spot  of  the  prairie  he  discerned  the 
print  of  a  hoof.  It  was  not  that  of  one  of  the 
train's  animals.  Alfred  knew  this,  because  just 
to  one  side  of  it,  caught  under  a  grass-blade  so 
cunningly  that  only  the  little  scout's  eyes  could 
have  discerned  it  at  all,  was  a  single  blue  bead. 
Alfred  rode  out  on  the  prairie  to  right  and  left, 
and  found  the  hoof -prints  of  about  thirty  ponies. 
He  pushed  his  hat  back  and  wrinkled  his  brow, 
for  the  one  thing  he  was  looking  for  he  could  not 


120  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

find — the  two  narrow  furrows  made  by  the  ends 
of  teepee-poles  dragging  along  on  either  side  of 
the  ponies.  The  absence  of  these  indicated  that 
the  band  was  composed  entirely  of  bucks,  and 
bucks  were  likely  to  mean  mischief. 

He  pushed  ahead  of  the  whole  party,  his  eyes 
fixed  earnestly  on  the  ground.  At  the  top  of  the 
hill  he  encountered  the  young  Easterner.  The 
latter  looked  puzzled,  in  a  half -humourous  way. 

"I  left  Miss  Caldwell  here  a  half -minute  ago," 
he  observed  to  Alfred,  "and  I  guess  she's  given 
me  the  slip.  Scold  her  good  for  me  when  she 
comes  in — will  you?"  He  grinned,  with  good- 
natured  malice  at  the  idea  of  Alfred's  scolding 
anyone. 

Then  Alfred  surprised  him. 

The  little  man  straightened  suddenly  in  his 
saddle  and  uttered  a  fervent  curse.  After  a  brief 
circle  about  the  prairie,  he  returned  to  the  young 
man. 

"You  go  back  to  th'  wagons,  and  wake  up  Billy 
Knapp,  and  tell  him  this — that  I've  gone  scoutin' 
some,  and  I  want  him  to  watch  out.  Under 
stand?  Watch  out!" 

"What?"  began  the  Easterner,  bewildered. 

"I'm  agoin'  to  find  her,"  said  the  little  man, 
decidedly. 


THE   GIEL   WHO   GOT   RATTLED  121 

"You  don't  think  there's  any  danger,  do  you?" 
asked  the  Easterner,  in  anxious  tones.  "Can't  I 
help  you?" 

"You  do  as  I  tell  you,"  replied  the  little  man, 
shortly,  and  rode  away. 

He  followed  Miss  Caldwell's  trail  quite  rapid 
ly,  for  the  trail  was  fresh.  As  long1  as  he  looked 
intently  for  hoof -marks,  nothing  was  to  be  seen, 
the  prairie  was  apparently  virgin;  but  by  glanc 
ing  the  eye  forty  or  fifty  yards  ahead,  a  faint  line 
was  discernible  through  the  grasses. 

Alfred  came  upon  Miss  Caldwell  seated  quiet 
ly  on  her  horse  in  the  very  centre  of  a  prairie-dog 
town,  and  so,  of  course,  in  the  midst  of  an  area 
of  comparatively  desert  character.  She  was 
amusing  herself  by  watching  the  marmots  as  they 
barked,  or  watched,  or  peeped  at  her,  according 
to  their  distance  from  her.  The  sight  of  Alfred 
was  not  welcome,  for  he  frightened  the  marmots. 

When  he  saw  Miss  Caldwell,  Alfred  grew 
bashful  again.  He  sidled  his  horse  up  to  her  and 
blushed. 

"I'll  show  you  th'  way  back,  miss,"  he  said, 
diffidently. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Miss  Caldwell,  with  a 
slight  coldness,  "I  can  find  my  own  way  back." 

"Yes,    of    course,"    hastened    Alfred,    in    an 


122  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

agony.  "But  don't  you  think  we  ought  to  start 
back  now?  I'd  like  to  go  with  you,  miss,  if  you'd 
let  me.  You  see  the  afternoon's  quite  late." 

Miss  Caldwell  cast  a  quizzical  eye  at  the  sun. 

"Why,  it's  hours  yet  till  dark!"  she  said, 
amusedly. 

Then  Alfred  surprised  Miss  Caldwell. 

His  diffident  manner  suddenly  left  him.  He 
jumped  like  lightning  from  his  horse,  threw  the 
reins  over  the  animal's  head  so  he  would  stand, 
and  ran  around  to  face  Miss  Caldwell. 

"Here,  jump  down!"  he  commanded. 

The  soft  Southern  burr  of  his  ordinary  con 
versation  had  given  place  to  a  clear  incisiveness. 
Miss  Caldwell  looked  at  him  amazed. 

Seeing  that  she  did  not  at  once  obey,  Alfred 
actually  began  to  fumble  hastily  with  the  straps 
that  held  her  riding-skirt  in  place.  This  was  so 
unusual  in  the  bashful  Alfred  that  Miss  Caldwell 
roused  and  slipped  lightly  to  the  ground. 

"Now  what?"  she  asked. 

Alfred,  without  replying,  drew  the  bit  to  with 
in  a  few  inches  of  the  animal's  hoofs,  and  tied 
both  fetlocks  firmly  together  with  the  double- 
loop.  This  brought  the  pony's  nose  down  close 
to  his  shackled  feet.  Then  he  did  the  same  thing 
with  his  own  beast.  Thus  neither  animal  could 


THE   GIRL    WHO   GOT   RATTLED  123 

Jo  much  as  hobble  one  way  or  the  other.     They 
were  securely  moored. 

Alfred  stepped  a  few  paces  to  the  eastward. 
Miss  Caldwell  followed. 

"Sit  down,"  said  he. 

Miss  Caldwell  obeyed  with  some  nervousness. 
She  did  not  understand  at  all,  and  that  made  her 
afraid.  She  began  to  have  a  dim  fear  lest  A± 
fred  might  have  gone  crazy.  His  next  move 
strengthened  this  suspicion.  He  walked  away 
ten  feet  and  raised  his  hand  over  his  head,  palm 
forward.  She  watched  him  so  intently  that  for 
a  moment  she  saw  nothing  else.  Then  she  fol 
lowed  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  and  uttered  a  lit 
tle  sobbing  cry. 

Just  below  the  sky-line  of  the  first  slope  to  east 
ward  was  silhouetted  a  figure  on  horseback.  The 
figure  on  horseback  sat  motionless. 

"We're  in  for  fight,"  said  Alfred,  coming  back 
after  a  moment.  "He  won't  answer  my  peace- 
sign,  and  he's  a  Sioux.  We  can't  make  a  run 
for  it  through  this  dog-town.  We've  just  got  to 
stand  'em  off." 

He  threw  down  and  back  the  lever  of  his  old 
44  Winchester,  and  softly  uncocked  the  arm. 
Then  he  sat  down  by  Miss  Caldwell. 

From  various  directions,  silently,  warriors  on 


124  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

horseback  sprang  into  sight  and  moved  digni- 
fiedly  toward  the  first-comer,  forming  at  the  last 
a  band  of  perhaps  thirty  men.  They  talked  to 
gether  for  a  moment,  and  then  one  by  one,  at 
regular  intervals,  detached  themselves  and  began 
circling  at  full  speed  to  the  left,  throwing  them 
selves  behind  their  horses,  and  yelling  shrill- 
voiced,  but  firing  no  shot  as  yet. 

"They'll  rush  us,"  speculated  Alfred.  "We're 
too  few  to  monkey  with  this  way.  This  is  a 
bluff." 

The  circle  about  the  two  was  now  complete. 
After  watching  the  whirl  of  figures  a  few  min 
utes,  and  the  motionless  landscape  beyond,  the 
eye  became  dizzied  and  confused. 

"They  won't  have  no  picnic,"  went  on  Alfred, 
with  a  little  chuckle.  "Dog-hole's  as  bad  fer 
them  as  fer  us.  They  don't  know  how  to  fight. 
If  they  was  to  come  in  on  all  sides,  I  couldn't 
handle  'em,  but  they  always  rush  in  a  bunch,  like 
damn  fools!"  and  then  Alfred  became  suffused 
with  blushes,  and  commenced  to  apologise  ab 
jectly  and  profusely  to  a  girl  who  had  heard 
neither  the  word  nor  its  atonement.  The  sav 
ages  and  the  approaching  fight  were  all  she  could 
think  of. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  Sioux  threw  himself  for- 


THE   GIUL   WHO  GOT  RATTLED  125 

ward  under  his  horse's  neck  and  fired.  The  bul 
let  went  wild,  of  course,  but  it  shrieked  with  the 
rising  inflection  of  a  wind-squall  through  bared 
boughs,  seeming  to  come  ever  nearer.  Miss 
Caldwell  screamed  and  covered  her  face.  The 
savages  yelled  in  chorus. 

The  one  shot  seemed  to  be  the  signal  for  a  spat 
tering  fire  all  along  the  line.  Indians  never  clean 
their  rifles,  rarely  get  good  ammunition,  and  are 
deficient  in  the  philosophy  of  hind-sights.  Be 
sides  this,  it  is  not  easy  to  shoot  at  long  range 
in  a  constrained  position  from  a  running  horse. 
Alfred  watched  them  contemptuously  in  si 
lence. 

"If  they  keep  that  up  long  enough,  the 
wagon-train  may  hear  'em,"  he  said,  finally* 
"Wisht  we  weren't  so  far  to  nor-rard.  There, 
it's  comin'I"  he  said,  more  excitedly. 

The  chief  had  paused,  and,  as  the  warroirs 
came  to  him,  they  threw  their  ponies  back  on  their 
haunches,  and  sat  motionless.  They  turned  the 
pomes'  heads  toward  the  two. 

Alfred  arose  deliberately  for  a  better  look. 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that's 
old  Lone  Pine,  sure  thing.  I  reckon  we-all's  got 
to  make  a  good  fight!" 

The  girl  had  sunk  to  the  ground,  and  was  shak- 


126  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

ing  from  head  to  foot.  It  is  not  nice  to  be  shot 
at  in  the  best  of  circumstances,  but  to  be  shot  at 
by  odds  of  thirty  to  one,  and  the  thirty  of  an  out 
landish  and  terrifying  species,  is  not  nice  at  all. 
Miss  Caldwell  had  gone  to  pieces  badly,  and  Al 
fred  looked  grave.  He  thoughtfully  drew  from 
its  holster  his  beautiful  Colt's  with  its  ivory  han 
dle,  and  laid  it  on  the  grass.  Then  he  blushed 
hot  and  cold,  and  looked  at  the  girl  doubtfully. 
A  sudden  movement  in  the  group  of  savages,  as 
the  war-chief  rode  to  the  front,  decided  him. 

"Miss  Caldwell,"  he  said. 

The  girl  shivered  and  moaned. 

Alfred  dropped  to  his  knees  and  shook  her 
shoulder  roughly. 

"Look  up  here,"  he  commanded.  "We  ain't 
got  but  a  minute." 

Composed  a  little  by  the  firmness  of  his  tone, 
she  sat  up.  Her  face  had  gone  chalky,  and  her 
hair  had  partly  fallen  over  her  eyes. 

"Now,  listen  to  every  word,"  he  said,  rapidly. 
"Those  In j  ins  is  goin'  to  rush  us  in  a  minute. 
P'r'aps  I  can  break  them,  but  I  don't  know.  In 
that  pistol  there,  I'll  always  save  two  shots — un 
derstand? — it's  always  loaded.  If  I  see  it's  all 
up,  I'm  a-goin'  to  shoot  you  with  one  of  'em,  and 
myself  with  the  other." 


THE   GIRL   WHO   GOT  RATTLED  127 

"Oh!"  cried  the  girl,  her  eyes  opening  wildly. 
She  was  paying  close  enough  attention  now. 

"And  if  they  kill  me  first" — he  reached  for 
ward  and  seized  her  wrist  impressively — "if  they 
kill  me  first,  you  must  take  that  pistol  and  shoot 
yourself.  Understand?  Shoot  yourself — in  the 
head — here !" 

He  tapped  his  forehead  with  a  stubby  fore 
finger. 

The  girl  shrank  back  in  horror.  Alfred 
snapped  his  teeth  together  and  went  on  grimly. 

"If  they  get  hold  of  you,"  he  said,  with 
solemnity,  "they'll  first  take  off  every  stitch  of 
your  clothes,  and  when  you're  quite  naked  they'll 
stretch  you  out  on  the  ground  with  a  rawhide  to 
each  of  your  arms  and  legs.  And  then  they'll 
drive  a  stake  through  the  middle  of  your  body 
into  the  ground — and  leave  you  there — to  die 
-slowly!" 

And  the  girl  believed  him,  because,  incongru 
ously  enough,  even  through  her  terror  she 
noticed  that  at  this,  the  most  immodest  speech  of 
his  life,  Alfred  did  not  blush.  She  looked  at  the 
pistol  lying  on  the  turf  with  horrified  fascina 
tion. 

The  group  of  Indians,  which  had  up  to  now 
remained  fully  a  thousand  yards  away,  suddenly 


128  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD  LIFE 

screeched  and  broke  into  a  run  directly  toward 
the  dog-town. 

There  is  an  indescribable  rush  in  a  charge  of 
savages.  The  little  ponies  make  their  feet  go  so 
fast,  the  feathers  and  trappings  of  the  warriors 
stream  behind  so  frantically,  the  whole  attitude 
of  horse  and  man  is  so  eager,  that  one  gets  an 
impression  of  fearful  speed  and  resistless  power. 
The  horizon  seems  full  of  Indians. 

As  if  this  were  not  sufficiently  terrifying,  the 
air  is  throbbing  with  sound.  Each  Indian  pops 
away  for  general  results  as  he  comes  jumping 
along,  and  yells  shrilly  to  show  what  a  big  war 
rior  he  is,  while  underneath  it  all  is  the  hurried 
monotone  of  hoof -beats  becoming  ever  louder,  as 
the  roar  of  an  increasing  rainstorm  on  the  roof. 
It  does  not  seem  possible  that  anything  can  stop 
them. 

Yet  there  is  one  thing  that  can  stop  them,  if 
skilfully  taken  advantage  of,  and  that  is  their 
lack  of  discipline.  An  Indian  will  fight  hard 
when  cornered,  or  when  heated  by  lively  resist 
ance,  but  he  hates  to  go  into  it  in  cold  blood.  As 
he  nears  the  opposing  rifle,  this  feeling  gets 
stronger.  So  often  a  man  with  nerve  enough  to 
hold  his  fire,  can  break  a  fierce  charge  merely  by 
waiting  until  it  is  within  fifty  yards  or  so,  and 


THE    GIRL   WHO   GOT    RATTLED  129 

then  suddenly  raising  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  If 
he  had  gone  to  shooting  at  once,  the  affair  would 
have  become  a  combat,  and  the  Indians  would 
have  ridden  him  down.  As  it  is,  each  has  had 
time  to  think.  By  the  time  the  white  man  is 
ready  to  shoot,  the  suspense  has  done  its  work. 
Each  savage  knows  that  but  one  will  fall,  but, 
cold-blooded,  he  does  not  want  to  be  that  one; 
and,  since  in  such  disciplined  fighters  it  is  each 
for  himself,  he  promptly  ducks  behind  his  mount 
and  circles  away  to  the  right  or  the  left.  The 
whole  band  swoops  and  divides,  like  a  flock  of 
swift-winged  terns  on  a  windy  day. 

This  Alfred  relied  on  in  the  approaching 
crisis. 

The  girl  watched  the  wild  sweep  of  the  war 
riors  with  strained  eyes.  She  had  to  grasp  her 
wrist  firmly  to  keep  from  fainting,  and  she 
seemed  incapable  of  thought.  Alfred  sat  mo 
tionless  on  a  dog-mound,  his  rifle  across  his  lap. 
He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  disturbed. 

"It's  good  to  fight  again,"  he  murmured, 
gently  fondling  the  stock  of  his  rifle.  "Come 
on,  ye  devils!  Oho!"  he  cried  as  a  warrior's  horse 
went  down  in  a  dog-hole,  "I  thought  so!" 

His  eyes  began  to  shine. 

The   ponies   came   skipping  here  and   there,, 


130  STORIES    OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

nimbly  dodging  in  and  out  between  the  dog-holes. 
Their  riders  shot  and  yelled  wildly,  but  none  of 
the  bullets  went  lower  than  ten  feet.  The  circle 
of  their  advance  looked  somehow  like  the  surge 
shoreward  of  a  great  wave,  and  the  similarity  was 
heightened  by  the  nodding  glimpses  of  the  light 
eagles'  feathers  in  their  hair. 

The  run  across  the  honey-combed  plain  was 
hazardous — even  to  Indian  ponies — and  three 
went  down  kicking,  one  after  the  other.  Two 
of  the  riders  lay  stunned.  The  third  sat  up  and 
began  to  rub  his  knee.  The  pony  belonging  to 
Miss  Caldwell,  becoming  frightened,  threw  itself 
and  lay  on  its  side,  kicking  out  frantically  with 
its  hind  legs. 

At  the  proper  moment  Alfred  cocked  his  rifle 
and  rose  swiftly  to  his  knees.  As  he  did  so,  the 
mound  on  which  he  had  been  kneeling  caved  into 
the  hole  beneath  it,  and  threw  him  forward  on  his 
face.  With  a  furious  curse,  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  levelled  his  rifle  at  the  thick  of  the  press. 
The  scheme  worked.  In  a  flash  every  savage  dis 
appeared  behind  his  pony,  and  nothing  was  to  be 
seen  but  an  arm  and  a  leg.  The  band  divided  on 
either  hand  as  promptly  as  though  the  signal  for 
such  a  drill  had  been  given,  and  swept  gracefully 
around  in  two  long  circles  until  it  reined  up  mo- 


THE    GIRL    WHO    GOT    RATTLED  131 

tionless  at  nearly  the  exact  point  from  which  it 
had  started  on  its  imposing  charge.  Alfred  had 
not  fired  a  shot. 

He  turned  to  the  girl  with  a  short  laugh. 

She  lay  face  upward  on  the  ground,  staring  at 
the  sky  with  wide-open,  horror-stricken  eyes.  In 
her  brow  was  a  small  blackened  hole,  and  under 
her  head,  which  lay  strangely  flat  against  the 
earth,  the  grasses  had  turned  red.  Near  her  hand 
lay  the  heavy  Colt's  44. 

Alfred  looked  at  her  a  minute  without  wink 
ing.  Then  he  nodded  his  head. 

"It  was  'cause  I  fell  down  that  hole — she 
thought  they'd  got  me!"  he  said  aloud  to  himself. 
'  'Pore  little  gal!  She  hadn't  ought  to  have  did 
it!" 

He  blushed  deeply,  and,  turning  his  face  away, 
pulled  down  her  skirt  until  it  covered  her  ankles. 
Then  he  picked  up  his  Winchester  and  fired  three 
shots.  The  first  hit  directly  back  of  the  ear  one 
of  the  stunned  Indians  who  had  fallen  with  his 
horse.  The  second  went  through  the  other 
stunned  Indian's  chest.  The  third  caught  the 
Indian  with  the  broken  leg  between  the  shoulders 
just  as  he  tried  to  get  behind  his  struggling  pony. 

Shortly  after,  Billy  Knapp  and  the  wagon- 
train  came  along. 


II 

BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT 

During  one  spring  of  the  early  seventies  Billy 
Knapp  ran  a  species  of  road-house  and  hotel  at 
the  crossing  of  the  Dead  wood  and  Big  Horn 
trails  through  C uster  Valley.  Travellers  chang 
ing  from  one  to  the  other  frequently  stopped 
there  over  night.  He  sold  accommodations  for 
man  and  beast,  the  former  comprising  plenty  of 
whiskey,  the  latter  plenty  of  hay.  That  was  the 
best  anyone  could  say  of  it.  The  hotel  was  of 
logs,  two-storied,  with  partitions  of  sheeting  to 
insure  a  certain  privacy  of  sight  if  not  of  sound; 
had  three  beds  and  a  number  of  bunks;  and 
boasted  of  a  woman  cook — one  of  the  first  in  the 
Hills.  Billy  did  not  run  it  long.  He  was  too 
restless.  For  the  time  being,  however,  he  was 
interested  and  satisfied. 

The  personnel  of  the  establishment  consisted 
of  Billy  and  the  woman,  already  mentioned,  and 
an  ancient  Pistol  of  the  name  of  Charley.  The 

132 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  133 

latter  wore  many  firearms,  and  had  a  good  deal 
to  say,  but  had  never,  as  Billy  expressed  it, 
"  made  good."  This  in  the  West  could  not  be 
for  lack  of  opportunity.  His  functions  were 
those  of  general  factotum. 

One  evening  Billy  sat  chair-tilted  against  the 
walls  of  the  hotel  waiting  for  the  stage.  By  and 
by  it  drew  in.  Charley  hobbled  out,  carrying 
buckets  of  water  for  the  horses.  The  driver 
flung  the  reins  from  him  with  the  lordly  insolence 
of  his  privileged  class,  descended  slowly,  and 
swaggered  to  the  bar-room  for  his  drink.  Billy 
followed  to  serve  it. 

"  Luck,"  said  the  driver,  and  crooked  his  elbow. 

"  Anything  new  ?  "  queried  Billy. 

"  Nope." 

"Held  up?" 

"  Nope.     Black  Hank's  over  in  th'  limestone." 

That  exhausted  the  situation.  The  two  men 
puffed  silently  for  a  moment  at  their  pipes.  In 
an  instant  the  driver  turned  to  go. 

"  I  got  you  a  tenderfoot,"  he  remarked  then, 
casually  ;  "  I  reckon  he's  outside." 

"  Guess  I  ambles  forth  and  sees  what  fer  a 
tenderfoot  it  is,"  replied  Billy,  hastening  from 
behind  the  bar. 

The  tenderfoot  was  seated  on  a  small  trunk 


134  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

just  outside  the  door.  As  he  held  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  Billy  could  see  his  dome-like  bald  head. 
Beneath  the  dome  was  a  little  pink-and-white 
face,  and  below  that  narrow,  sloping  shoulders,  a 
flat  chest,  and  bandy  legs.  He  wore  a  light 
check  suit,  and  a  flannel  shirt  whose  collar  was 
much  too  large  for  him.  Billy  took  this  all  in 
while  passing.  As  the  driver  climbed  to  the  seat, 
the  hotel-keeper  commented. 

"Say,  Hen,"  said  he,  "would  you  stuff  it  or 
put  it  under  a  glass  case?" 

"I'd  serve  it,  a  lay  Tooloose,"  replied  the  driver, 
briefly,  and  brought  his  long  lash  8 -shaped  across 
the  four  startled  backs  of  his  horses. 

Billy  turned  to  the  reinspection  of  his  guest, 
and  met  a  deprecating  smile. 

"Can  I  get  a  room  here  fer  to-night?"  he  in 
quired  in  a  high,  piping  voice. 

"You  kin,"  said  Billy,  shortly,  and  began  to 
howl  for  Charley. 

That  patriarch  appeared  around  the  corner,  as 
did  likewise  the  cook,  a  black-eyed,  red-cheeked 
creature,  afterward  counted  by  Billy  as  one  of 
his  eight  matrimonial  ventures. 

"Snake  this  stranger's  war-bag  into  th'  shack," 
commanded  Billy,  "and,  Nell,  jest  nat'rally  rus 
tle  a  few  grub." 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  135 

The  stranger  picked  up  a  small  hand-satchel 
and  followed  Charley  into  the  building.  When, 
a  little  later,  he  reappeared  for  supper,  he  carried 
the  hand-bag  with  him,  and  placed  it  under  the 
bench  which  flanked  the  table.  Afterward  he 
deposited  it  near  his  hand  while  enjoying  a  pipe 
outside.  Naturally,  all  this  did  not  escape 
Billy. 

"Stranger,"  said  he,  "yo'  seems  mighty  wedded 
to  that  thar  satchel." 

"Yes,  sir,"  piped  the  stranger.  Billy  snorted 
at  the  title.  "I  has  some  personal  belongin's 
which  is  valuable  to  me."  He  opened  the  bag 
and  produced  a  cheap  portrait  of  a  rather  cheap- 
looking  woman.  "My  mother  that  was,"  said  he. 

Billy  snorted  again  and  went  inside.  He 
hated  sentiment  of  all  kinds. 

The  two  men  sat  opposite  each  other  and  ate 
supper,  which  was  served  by  the  red-cheeked  girl. 
The  stranger  kept  his  eyes  on  his  plate  while  she 
was  in  the  room.  He  perched  on  the  edge  of 
the  bench  with  his  feet  tucked  under  him  and 
resting  on  the  toes.  When  she  approached,  the 
muscles  of  his  shoulders  and  upper  arms  grew 
rigid  with  embarrassment,  causing  strange  awk 
ward  movements  of  the  hands.  He  answered  in 
monosyllables. 


136  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

Billy  ate  expansively  and  earnestly.  Toward 
the  close  of  the  meal  Charley  slipped  into  place 
beside  him.  Charley  was  out  of  humour,  and 
found  the  meat  cold. 

"Damn  yore  soul,  Nell,"  he  cried,  "this  yere 
ain't  fitten  fer  a  hog  to  eatl" 

The  girl  did  not  mind ;  nor  did  Billy.  It  was 
the  country's  mode  of  speech.  The  stranger 
dropped  his  knife. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  don't  like  it,  then,"  said 
he,  with  a  funny  little  blaze  of  anger. 

"Meanin'  what?"  shouted  Charley,  threaten 
ingly. 

"You  sure  mustn't  speak  to  a  lady  that  way," 
replied  the  stranger,  firmly,  in  his  little  piping 
voice. 

Billy  caught  the  point  and  exploded  in  a 
mighty  guffaw. 

"Bully  fer  you!"  he  cried,  slapping  his  knee; 
"struck  pyrites  (he  pronounced  it  pie-rights)  fer 
shore  that  trip,  Charley." 

The  girl,  too,  laughed,  but  quietly.  She  was 
just  a  little  touched,  though  only  this  winter  she 
had  left  Bismarck  because  the  place  would  have 
no  more  of  her. 

In  the  face  of  Billy's  approval,  the  patriarch 
fell  silent. 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  137 

About  midnight  the  four  inmates  of  the  fron 
tier  hotel  were  awakened  by  a  tremendous  racket 
outside.  The  stranger  arose,  fully  clothed,  from 
his  bunk,  and  peered  through  the  narrow  open 
window.  A  dozen  horses  were  standing  grouped 
in  charge  of  a  single  mounted  man,  indistinguish 
able  in  the  dark.  Out  of  the  open  door  a  broad 
band  of  light  streamed  from  the  saloon,  whence 
came  the  noise  of  voices  and  of  boots  tramping 
about. 

"It  is  Black  Hank,"  said  Billy,  at  his  elbow, 
"Black  Hank  and  his  outfit.  He  hitches  to  this 
yere  snubbin'-post  occasional." 

Black  Hank  in  the  Hills  would  have  translated 
to  Jesse  James  farther  south. 

The  stranger  turned  suddenly  energetic. 

"Don't  you  make  no  fight?"  he  asked. 

"Fight?"  said  Billy,  wondering.  "Fight? 
Co'se  not.  Hank  don't  plunder  me  none.  He 
jest  ambles  along  an'  helps  himself,  and  leaves 
th'  dust  fer  it  every  time.  I  jest  lays  low  an'  lets 
him  operate.  I  never  has  no  dealings  with  him, 
understand.  He  jest  nat 'rally  waltzes  in  an' 
plants  his  grub-hooks  on  what  he  needs.  I  don't 
know  nothin'  about  it.  I'm  dead  asleep." 

He  bestowed  a  shadowy  wink  on  the  stranger 

Below,  the  outlaws  moved  here  and  there. 


138  STOEIES    OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

"Billy!"  shouted  a  commanding  voice,  "Billy 
Knapp!" 

The  hotel-keeper  looked  perplexed. 

"Now,  what's  he  tollin'  me  for?"  he  asked  of 
the  man  by  his  side. 

"Billy!"  shouted  the  voice  again,  "come  down 
here,  you  Siwash.  I  want  to  palaver  with  you!" 

"All  right,  Hank,"  replied  Billy. 

He  went  to  his  "room,"  and  buckled  on  a  heavy 
belt;  then  descended  the  steep  stairs.  The  bar 
room  was  lighted  and  filled  with  men.  Some  of 
them  were  drinking  and  eating;  others  were 
strapping  provisions  into  portable  form.  Against 
the  corner  of  the  bar  a  tall  figure  of  a  man 
leaned  smoking — a  man  lithe,  active,  and  muscu 
lar,  with  a  keen  dark  face,  and  black  eyebrows 
which  met  over  his  nose.  Billy  walked  silently 
to  this  man. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  shortly.  "This  yere 
ain't  in  th'  agreement." 

"I  know  that,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"Then  leave  yore  dust  and  vamoose." 

"My  dust  is  there,"  replied  Black  Hank,  plac 
ing  his  hand  on  a  buckskin  bag  at  his  side,  "and 
you're  paid,  Billy  Knapp.  I  want  to  ask  you  a 
question.  Standing  Rock  has  sent  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars  in  greenbacks  to  Spotted  Tail.  The 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  139- 

messenger  went  through  here  to-day.  Have  you 
seen  him?" 

"Nary  messenger,"  replied  Billy,  in  relief. 
"Stage  goes  empty." 

Charley  had  crept  down  the  stairs  and  into  the 
room. 

"What  in  hell  are  yo'  doin'  yere,  yo'  ranikaboo 
ijit?"  inquired  Billy,  truculently. 

"That  thar  stage  ain't  what  you  calls  empty" 
observed  Charley,  unmoved. 

A  light  broke  on  Billy's  mind.  He  remarked 
the  valise  which  the  stranger  had  so  carefully 
guarded;  and  though  his  common-sense  told  him 
that  an  inoffensive  non-combatant  such  as  his 
guest  would  hardly  be  chosen  as  express  mes 
senger,  still  the  bare  possibility  remained. 

"Yo're  right,"  he  agreed,  carelessly,  "thar  is 
one  tenderfoot,  who  knows  as  much  of  ridin'  ex 
press  as  a  pig  does  of  a  ruffled  shirt." 

"I  notes  he's  almighty  particular  about  that 
carpet-bag  of  his'n,"  insisted  Charley. 

The  man  against  the  counter  had  lost  nothing 
of  the  scene.  Billy's  denial,  his  hesitation,  his 
half-truth  all  looked  suspicious  to  him.  With 
one  swift,  round  sweep  of  the  arm  he  had  Billy 
covered.  Billy's  hands  shot  over  his  head  with 
out  the  necessity  of  command. 


140  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

The  men  ceased  their  occupations  and  gath 
ered  about.  Scenes  of  this  sort  were  too  com 
mon  to  elicit  comment  or  arouse  excitement. 
They  knew  perfectly  well  the  laissez-faire  re 
lations  which  obtained  between  the  two  West 
erners. 

"Now,"  said  Black  Hank,  angrily,  in  a  low 
tone,  "I  want  to  know  why  in  hell  you  tried  that 
monkey  game!" 

Billy,  wary  and  unafraid,  replied  that  he  had 
tried  no  game,  that  he  had  forgotten  the  tender 
foot  for  the  moment,  and  that  he  did  not  believe 
the  latter  would  prove  to  be  the  sought-for  ex 
press  messenger. 

One  of  the  men,  at  a  signal  from  his  leader, 
relieved  Billy's  heavy  belt  of  considerable  weight. 
Then  the  latter  was  permitted  to  sit  on  a  cracker- 
box.  Two  more  mounted  the  stairs.  In  a  mo 
ment  they  returned  to  report  that  the  upper  story 
contained  no  human  beings,  strange  or  other 
wise,  except  the  girl,  but  that  there  remained 
a  small  trunk.  Under  further  orders,  they 
dragged  the  trunk  down  into  the  bar-room.  It 
was  broken  open  and  found  to  contain  nothing 
but  clothes — of  the  plainsman's  cut,  material,  and 
state  of  wear;  a  neatly  folded  Mexican  saddle 
showing  use,  and  a  raw-hide  quirt 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  141 

"Hell  of  a  tenderfoot!"  said  Black  Hank,  con 
temptuously. 

The  outlaws  had  already  scattered  outside  to 
look  for  the  trail.  In  this  they  were  unsuccess 
ful,  reporting,  indeed,  that  not  the  faintest  sign 
indicated  escape  in  any  direction. 

Billy  knew  his  man.  The  tightening  of  Black 
Hank's  close-knit  brows  meant  but  one  thing. 
One  does  not  gain  chieftainship  of  any  kind  in 
the  West  without  propping  his  ascendency  with 
acts  of  ruthless  decision.  Billy  leaped  from  his 
cracker-box  with  the  suddenness  of  the  puma, 
seized  Black  Hank  firmly  about  the  waist, 
whirled  him  into  a  sort  of  shield,  and  began  an 
earnest  struggle  for  the  instant  possession  of  the 
outlaw's  drawn  revolver.  It  was  a  gallant  at 
tempt,  but  an  unsuccessful  one.  In  a  moment 
Billy  was  pinioned  to  the  floor,  and  Black  Hank 
was  rubbing  his  abraded  fore-arm.  After  that 
the  only  question  was  whether  it  should  be  rope 
or  bullet. 

Now,  when  Billy  had  gone  downstairs,  the 
stranger  had  wasted  no  further  time  at  the  win 
dow.  He  had  in  his  possession  fifty  thousand 
dollars  in  greenbacks  which  he  was  to  deliver  as 
soon  as  possible  to  the  Spotted  Tail  agency  in 
Wyoming.  The  necessary  change  of  stage  lines 


142  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

had  forced  liim  to  stay  over  night  at  Billy 
Knapp's  hotel. 

The  messenger  seized  his  bag  and  softly  ran 
along  through  the  canvas-partitioned  room 
wherein  Billy  slept,  to  a  narrow  window  which 
he  had  already  noticed  gave  out  almost  directly 
into  the  pine  woods.  The  window  was  of  oiled 
paper,  and  its  catch  baffled  him.  He  knew  it 
should  slide  back;  but  it  refused  to  slide.  He 
did  not  dare  break  the  paper  because  of  the 
crackling  noise.  A  voice  at  his  shoulder  startled 
him. 

"I'll  show  you,"  whispered  the  red-cheeked  girl. 

She  was  wrapped  loosely  in  a  blanket,  her  hair 
falling  about  her  shoulders,  and  her  bare  feet 
showed  beneath  her  coverings.  The  little  man 
suffered  at  once  an  agony  of  embarrassment  in 
which  the  thought  of  his  errand  was  lost.  It  was 
recalled  to  him  by  the  girl. 

"There  you  are,"  she  whispered,  showing  him 
the  open  window. 

"Thank  you,"  he  stammered,  painfully,  "I 
assure  you — I  wish — 

The  girl  laughed  under  her  breath. 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said,  heartily,  "I  owe 
you  that  for  calling  old  whiskers  off  his  bronc," 
and  she  kissed  him. 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  143 

The  messenger,  trembling  with  self-conscious 
ness,  climbed  hastily  through  the  window;  ran 
the  broad  loop  of  the  satchel  up  his  arm;  and, 
instead  of  dropping  to  the  ground,  as  the  girl  had 
expected,  swung  himself  lightly  into  the 
branches  of  a  rather  large  scrub-oak  that  grew 
near.  She  listened  to  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  for 
a  moment  as  he  neared  the  trunk,  and  then,  un 
able  longer  to  restrain  her  curiosity  in  regard  to 
the  doings  below,  turned  to  the  stairway. 

As  she  did  so,  two  men  mounted.  They  exam 
ined  the  three  rooms  of  the  upper  story  hastily 
but  carefully,  paying  scant  attention  to  her,  and 
departed  swearing.  In  a  few  moments  they  re 
turned  for  the  stranger's  trunk.  Nell  followed 
them  down  the  stairs  as  far  as  the  doorway. 
There  she  heard  and  saw  things,  and  fled  in  bitter 
dismay  to  the  back  of  the  house  when  Billy 
Knapp  was  overpowered. 

At  the  window  she  knelt,  clasping  her  hands 
and  sinking  her  head  between  her  arms.  Women 
in  the  West,  at  least  women  like  Nell,  do  not 
weep.  But  she  came  near  it.  Suddenly  she 
raised  her  head.  A  voice  next  her  ear  had  ad 
dressed  her. 

She  looked  here  and  there  and  around,  but 
could  discover  nothing. 


144  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

"Here,  outside,"  came  the  low,  guarded  voice, 
"in  the  tree." 

Then  she  saw  that  the  little  stranger  had  not 
stirred  from  his  first  alighting-place. 

"Beg  yore  pardon,  ma'am,  f  er  startling  you  or 
fer  addressing  you  at  all,  which  I  shouldn't, 
but- 

"Oh,  never  mind  that,"  said  the  girl,  impa 
tiently,  shaking  back  her  hair.  So  deprecating 
and  timid  were  the  tones,  that  almost  without  an 
effort  of  the  imagination  she  could  picture  the 
little  man's  blushes  and  his  half -sidling  method 
of  delivery.  At  this  supreme  moment  his  little 
ness  and  lack  of  self-assertion  jarred  on  her 
mood.  "What're  you  doin'  there?  Thought 
you'd  vamoosed." 

"It  was  safer  here,"  explained  the  stranger, 
"I  left  no  trail." 

She  nodded  comprehension  of  the  common- 
sense  of  this. 

"But,  ma'am,  I  took  the  liberty  of  speakin*  to 
you  because  you  seems  to  be  in  trouble.  Of 
course,  I  ain't  got  no  right  to  ask,  an'  if  you  don't 
care  to  tell  me " 

"They're  goin'  to  kill  Billy,"  broke  in  NeU, 
with  a  sob. 

"What  for?" 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  145 

"I  don't  jest  rightly  make  out.  They's  after 
someone,  and  they  thinks  Billy's  cacheing  him. 
I  reckon  it's  you.  Billy  ain't  cacheing  nothin', 
but  they  thinks  he  is." 

"It's  me  they's  after,  all  right.  Now,  you 
know  where  I  am,  why  don't  you  tell  them  and 
save  Billy?" 

The  girl  started,  but  her  keen  Western  mind 
saw  the  difficulty  at  once. 

"They  thinks  Billy  pertects  you  jest  th'  same." 

"Do  you  love  him?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"God  knows  I'm  purty  tough,"  confessed 
Nell,  sobbing,  "but  I  jest  do  that!"  and  she 
dropped  her  head  again. 

The  invisible  stranger  in  the  gloom  fell  silent, 
considering. 

"I'm  a  pretty  rank  proposition,  myself,"  said 
he  at  last,  as  if  to  himself,  "and  I've  got  a  job 
on  hand  which  same  I  oughta  put  through  with 
out  givin'  attention  to  anything  else.  As  a  usual 
thing  folks  don't  care  fer  me,  and  I  don't  care 
much  fer  folks.  Women  especial.  They  drives 
me  plumb  tired.  I  reckon  I  don't  stack  up  very 
high  in  th'  blue  chips  when  it  comes  to  cashin'  in 
with  the  gentle  sex,  anyhow ;  but  in  general  they 
gives  me  as  much  notice  as  they  lavishes  on  a 
doodle-bug.  I  ain't  kickin',  you  understand, 


146  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LITE 

nary  bit ;  but  onct  in  a  dog's  age  I  kind  of  hankers 
f  er  a  decent  look  from  one  of  'em.  I  ain't  never 
had  no  women-folks  of  my  own,  never.  Some 
times  I  thinks  it  would  be  some  scrumptious  to 
know  a  little  gal  waitin'  fer  me  somewhere. 
They  ain't  none.  They  never  will  be.  I  ain't 
built  that  way.  You  treated  me  white  to-night. 
You're  th'  first  woman  that  ever  kissed  me  of  her 
own  accord." 

The  girl  heard  a  faint  scramble,  then  the  soft 
pat  of  someone  landing  on  his  feet.  Peering 
from  the  window  she  made  out  a  faint,  shadowy 
form  stealing  around  the  corner  of  the  hotel. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  and  listened.  Her 
understanding  of  the  stranger's  motives  was 
vague  at  best,  but  she  had  caught  his  confession 
that  her  kiss  had  meant  much  to  him,  and  even 
in  her  anxiety  she  felt  an  inclination  to  laugh. 
She  had  bestowed  that  caress  as  she  would  have 
kissed  the  cold  end  of  a  dog's  nose. 

The  men  below  stairs  had,  after  some  discus- 
sion,  decided  on  bullet.  This  was  out  of  consid 
eration  for  Billy's  standing  as  a  frontiersman. 
Besides,  he  had  stolen  no  horses.  In  order  not 
io  delay  matters,  the  execution  was  fixed  for  the 
present  time  and  place.  Billy  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  logs  of  his  own  hotel,  his  hands  and  feet 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  147 

bound,  but  his  eyes  uncovered.  He  had  never 
lost  his  nerve.  In  the  short  respite  which  prepa 
ration  demanded,  he  told  his  opponents  what  he 
thought  of  them. 

"Proud?"  he  concluded  a  long  soliloquy  as  if 
to  the  reflector  of  the  lamp.  "Proud?"  he  re 
peated,  reflectively.  "This  yere  Hank's  jest 
that  proud  he's  all  swelled  up  like  a  poisoned  pup. 
Ain't  everyone  kin  corall  a  man  sleepin'  and  git 
fifty  thousand  without  turnin'  a  hair." 

Black  Hank  distributed  three  men  to  do  the 
business.  There  were  no  heroics.  The  execu 
tion  of  this  man  was  necessary  to  him,  not  be 
cause  he  was  particularly  angry  over  the  escape 
of  the  messenger — he  expected  to  capture  that 
individual  in  due  time — but  in  order  to  preserve 
his  authority  over  his  men.  He  was  in  the  act 
of  moving  back  to  give  the  shooters  room,  when 
he  heard  behind  him  the  door  open  and  shut. 

He  turned.  Before  the  door  stood  a  small 
consumptive-looking  man  in  a  light  check  suit. 
The  tenderfoot  carried  two  short-barrelled  Colt's 
revolvers,  one  of  which  he  presented  directly  at 
Black  Hank. 

*  'Nds  up !"  he  commanded,  sharply. 

Hank  was  directly  covered,  so  he  obeyed.  The 
new-comer's  eye  had  a  strangely  restless  qual- 


148  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

ity.  Of  the  other  dozen  inmates  of  the  room, 
eleven  were  firmly  convinced  that  the  weapon  and 
eye  not  directly  levelled  at  their  leader  were  per 
sonally  concerned  with  themselves.  The  twelfth 
thought  he  saw  his  chance.  To  the  bewildered 
onlookers  there  seemed  to  be  a  flash  and  a  bang, 
instantaneous;  then  things  were  as  before.  One 
of  the  stranger's  weapons  still  pointed  at  Black 
Hank's  breast;  the  other  at  each  of  the  rest. 
Only  the  twelfth  man,  he  who  had  seen  his 
chance,  had  collapsed  forward  to  the  floor.  No 
one  could  assure  himself  positively  that  he  had 
discerned  the  slightest  motion  on  the  part  of  the 
stranger. 

"Now,"  said  the  latter,  sharply,  "one  at  a  time, 
gentlemen.  Drop  yore  gun,"  this  last  to  Black 
Hank,  "muzzle  down.  Drop  it!  Correct!" 

One  of  the  men  in  the  back  of  the  room  stirred 
slightly  on  the  ball  of  his  foot. 

"Steady,  there!"  warned  the  stranger.  The 
man  stiffened. 

"Next  gent,"  went  on  the  little  man,  subtly 
indicating  another.  The  latter  obeyed  without 
hesitation.  "Next.  Now  you.  Now  you  in 
th'  corner." 

One  after  another  the  pistols  clattered  to  the 
floor.  Not  for  an  instant  could  a  single  inmate 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  149 

of  the  apartment,  armed  or  unarmed,  flatter  him 
self  that  his  slightest  motion  was  unobserved. 
They  were  like  tigers  on  the  crouch,  ready  to 
spring  the  moment  the  man's  guard  lowered.  It 
did  not  lower.  The  huddled  figure  on  the  floor 
reminded  them  of  what  might  happen.  They 
obeyed. 

"Step  back,"  commanded  the  stranger  next. 
In  a  moment  he  had  them  standing  in  a  row 
against  the  wall,  rigid,  upright,  their  hands  over 
their  heads.  Then  for  the  first  time  the  stranger 
moved  from  his  position  by  the  door. 

"Call  her,"  he  said  to  Billy,  "th'  girl." 

Billy  raised  his  voice.     "Nell!    Oh,  Nell!" 

In  a  moment  she  appeared  in  the  doorway  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  without  hesitation  or  fear. 
When  she  perceived  the  state  of  affairs,  she 
brightened  almost  mischievously. 

"Would  you  jest  as  soon,  ma'am,  if  it  ain't 
troubling  you  too  much,  jest  nat 'rally  sort  of 
untie  Billy?"  requested  the  stranger. 

She  did  so.  The  hotel-keeper  stretched  his 
arms. 

"Now,  pick  up  th'  guns,  please." 

The  two  set  about  it. 

"Where's  that  damn  ol'  reprobate?"  inquired 
Billy,  truculently,  looking  about  for  Charley. 


150  STORIES   OF   THE    WILD   LIFE 

The  patriarch  had  quietly  slipped  away. 

"You  kin  drop  them  hands,"  advised  the 
stranger,  lowering  the  muzzles  of  his  weapons. 
The  leader  started  to  say  something. 

"You  shut  up!"  said  Billy,  selecting  his  own 
weapons  from  the  heap. 

The  stranger  suddenly  picked  up  one  of  the 
Colt's  single-action  revolvers  which  lay  on  the 
floor,  and,  holding  the  trigger  back  against  the 
guard,  exploded  the  six  charges  by  hitting  the 
hammer  smartly  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  In 
the  thrusting  motion  of  this  discharge  he  evi 
dently  had  design,  for  the  first  six  wine-glasses 
on  Billy's  bar  were  shivered.  It  was  wonderful 
work,  rattling  fire,  quicker  than  a  self-cocker 
even.  He  selected  another  weapon.  From  a 
pile  of  tomato-cans  he  took  one  and  tossed  it  into 
the  air.  Before  it  had  fallen  he  had  perforated 
it  twice,  and  as  it  rolled  along  the  floor  he  helped 
its  progression  by  four  more  bullets  which  left 
streams  of  tomato- juice  where  they  had  hit.  The 
room  was  full  of  smoke.  The  group  watched, 
fascinated. 

Then  the  men  against  the  wall  grew  rigid. 
Out  of  the  film  of  smoke  long,  vivid  streams  of 
fire  flashed  toward  them,  now  right,  now  left,  like 
the  alternating  steam  of  a  locomotive's  pistons. 


BILLY'S  TENDERFOOT  151 

Smash,  smash!  Smash,  smash!  hit  the  bullets 
with  regular  thud.  With  the  twelfth  discharge 
the  din  ceased.  Midway  in  the  space  between 
the  heads  of  each  pair  of  men  against  the  wall 
was  a  round  hole.  No  one  was  touched. 

A  silence  fell.  The  smoke  lightened  and  blew 
slowly  through  the  open  door.  The  horses,  long 
since  deserted  by  their  guardians  in  favour  of  the 
excitement  within,  whinnied.  The  stranger 
dropped  the  smoking  Colts,  and  quietly  repro 
duced  his  own  short -barrelled  arms  from  his  side- 
pockets,  where  he  had  thrust  them.  Billy  broke 
the  silence  at  last. 

"That's  shootin!"  he  observed,  with  a  sigh. 

"Them  fifty  thousand  is  outside,"  clicked  the 
stranger.  "Do  you  want  them?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"I  aims  to  pull  out  on  one  of  these  yere  bosses 
of  yours,"  said  he.  "Billy  he's  all  straight.  He 
doesn't  know  nothin'  about  me." 

He  collected  the  six-shooters  from  the  floor. 

"I  jest  takes  these  with  me  for  a  spell,"  he  con 
tinued.  "You'll  find  them,  if  you  look  hard 
enough,  along  on  th'  trail — also  yore  broncs." 

He  backed  toward  the  door. 

"I'm  lay  in'  fer  th'  man  that  sticks  his  head  out 
that  door,"  he  warned. 


152  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

"Stranger/'  said  Black  Hank  as  he  neared  the 
door. 

The  little  man  paused. 

"Might  I  ask  yore  name?" 

"My  name  is  Alfred,"  replied  the  latter. 

Black  Hank  looked  chagrined. 

"I've  hearn  tell  of  you,"  he  acknowledged. 

The  stranger's  eye  ran  over  the  room,  and  en 
countered  that  of  the  girl.  He  shrank  into  him 
self  and  blushed. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  hastily,  and  disap 
peared.  A  moment  later  the  beat  of  hoofs  be 
came  audible  as  he  led  the  bunch  of  horses  away. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence.  Then  Billy,  "By 
God,  Hank,  I  means  to  stand  in  with  you,  but 
you  let  that  kid  alone,  or  I  plugs  youl" 

"Kid,  huh!"  grunted  Hank.  "Alfred  a  kid! 
I've  hearn  tell  of  him." 

"WhatVe  you  heard?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"He's  th'  plumb  best  scout  on  th'  southern 
trail,"  replied  Black  Hank. 

The  year  following,  Billy  Knapp,  Alfred,  and 
another  man  named  Jim  Buckley  took  across  to 
the  Hills  the  only  wagon-train  that  dared  set  out 
that  summer. 


Ill 

THE    TWO    CARTRIDGES 

This  happened  at  the  time  Billy  Knapp  drove 
stage  between  Pierre  and  Deadwood.  I  think 
you  can  still  see  the  stage  in  Buffalo  Bill's  show. 
Lest  confusion  arise  and  the  reader  be  inclined  to 
credit  Billy  with  more  years  than  are  his  due,  it 
might  be  well  also  to  mention  that  the  period  was 
some  time  after  the  summer  he  and  Alfred  and 
Jim  Buckley  had  made  their  famous  march  with 
the  only  wagon-train  that  dared  set  out,  and 
some  time  before  Billy  took  to  mining.  Jim  had 
already  moved  to  Montana. 

The  journey  from  Pierre  to  Deadwood 
amounted  to  something.  All  day  long  the  trail 
led  up  and  down  long  grassy  slopes,  and  across 
sweeping,  intervening  flats.  While  climbing  the 
slopes,  you  could  never  get  your  experience  to 
convince  you  that  you  were  not,  on  topping  the 
hill,  about  to  overlook  the  entire  country  for  miles 
around.  This  never  happened;  you  saw  no  far 
ther  than  the  next  roll  of  the  prairie.  While 

153 


154  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

hurtling  down  the  slopes,  you  saw  the  interven 
ing  flat  as  interminably  broad  and  hot  and  breath 
less,  or  interminably  broad  and  icy  and  full  of 
arctic  winds,  according  to  the  season  of  the  year. 
Once  in  a  dog's  age  you  came  to  a  straggling 
fringe  of  cottonwood-trees,  indicating  a  creek 
bottom.  The  latter  was  either  quite  dry  or  in 
raging  flood.  Close  under  the  hill  huddled  two 
buildings,  half  logs,  half  mud.  There  the  horses 
were  changed  by  strange  men  with  steel  glints 
in  their  eyes,  like  those  you  see  under  the  brows 
of  a  north-country  tug-boat  captain.  Passen 
gers  could  there  eat  flap- jacks  architecturally 
warranted  to  hold  together  against  the  most  vig 
orous  attack  of  the  gastric  juices,  and  drink 
green  tea  that  tasted  of  tannin  and  really  de 
manded  for  its  proper  accommodation  porcelain- 
lined  insides.  It  was  not  an  inspiring  trip. 

Of  course,  Billy  did  not  accompany  the  stage 
all  of  the  way;  only  the  last  hundred  miles;  but 
the  passengers  did,  and  by  the  time  they  reached 
Billy  they  were  usually  heartily  sick  of  their  un 
dertaking.  Once  a  tenderfoot  came  through  in 
the  fall  of  the  year,  simply  for  the  love  of  adven 
ture.  He  got  it. 

"Driver,"  said  he  to  Billy,  as  the  brakes  set  for 
another  plunge,  "were  you  ever  held  up  ?" 


THE  TWO   CARTRIDGES  155 

Billy  had  been  deluged  with  questions  like  this 
for  the  last  two  hours.  Usually  he  looked 
straight  in  front  of  him,  spat  accurately  between 
the  tail  of  the  wheel-horse  and  the  whiffle-tree, 
and  answered  in  monosyllables.  The  tenderfoot 
did  not  know  that  asking  questions  was  not  the 
way  to  induce  Billy  to  talk. 

"Held  up?"  replied  Billy,  with  scorn.  "Young 
feller,  I  is  held  up  thirty-seven  times  in  th'  last 
year." 

"Thunderationl"  exclaimed  the  tenderfoot. 
"What  do  you  do?  Do  you  have  much  trouble 
getting  away?  Have  you  had  much  fighting?" 

"Fight  nothin'.  I  ain't  hired  to  fight.  I'm 
hired  to  drive  stage." 

"And  you  just  let  them  go  through  you?"  cried 
the  tenderfoot. 

Billy  was  stung  by  the  contempt  in  the 
stranger's  tone. 

"Go  through  nothin',"  he  explained.  "They 
isn't  touchin'  me  none  whatever.  Put  her  down 
fer  argument  that  I'm  damn  fool  enough  to 
sprinkle  lead  'round  some,  and  that  I  gets  away. 
What  happens?  Nex'  time  I  drives  stage  some 
of  these  yere  agents  massacrees  me  from  behind 
a  bush.  Whar  do  I  come  in?  Nary  bit!" 

The  tenderfoot,  struck  by  the  logic  of  this 


156  STOEIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

reasoning,  fell  silent.  After  an  interval  the  sun 
set  in  a  film  of  yellow  light;  then  the  afterglow 
followed;  and  finally  the  stars  pricked  out  the 
true  immensity  of  the  prairies. 

" He's  the  feller  hired  to  fight,"  observed  the 
shadowy  Billy,  jerking  his  thumb  backward. 

The  tenderfoot  now  understood  the  silent,  grim 
man  who,  unapproachable  and  solitary,  had  alone 
occupied  the  seat  on  top  of  the  stage.  Looking 
with  more  curiosity,  the  tenderfoot  observed  a 
shot-gun  with  abnormally  short  barrels,  slung  in 
two  brass  clips  along  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front 
of  the  messenger.  The  usual  revolvers,  too,  were 
secured,  instead  of  by  the  regulation  holsters,  in 
brass  clips  riveted  to  the  belt,  so  that  in  case  of 
necessity  they  could  be  snatched  free  with  one 
forward  sweep  of  the  arm.  The  man  met  his 
gaze  keenly. 

"Them  Hills  ain't  fur  now,"  vouchsafed  Billy, 
as  a  cold  breeze  from  the  west  lifted  the  limp 
brim  of  his  hat,  and  a  film  of  cloud  drew  with  un 
canny  and  silent  rapidity  across  the  stars. 

The  tenderfoot  had  turned  again  to  look  at  the 
messenger,  who  interested  him  exceedingly,  when 
the  stage  came  to  a  stop  so  violent  as  almost  to 
throw  him  from  his  seat.  He  recovered  his  bal 
ance  with  difficulty.  Billy,  his  foot  braced 


THE   TWO   CARTRIDGES  157 

against  the  brake,  was  engaged  in  leisurely  wind 
ing  the  reins  around  it. 

"Hands  up,  I  say!"  cried  a  sharp  voice  from 
the  darkness  ahead. 

"Meanin'  you,"  observed  Billy  to  the  tender 
foot,  at  the  same  time  thrusting  his  own  over  his 
head  and  settling  down  comfortably  on  the  small 
of  his  back.  "Time!"  he  called,  facetiously,  to 
the  darkness. 

As  though  at  the  signal  the  night  split  with  the 
roar  of  buckshot,  and  splintered  with  the  answer 
ing  crackle  of  a  six-shooter  three  times  repeated. 
The  screech  of  the  brake  had  deceived  the  mes 
senger  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  voice.  He 
had  jumped  to  the  ground  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  stage,  thus  finding  himself  without  protection 
against  his  opponent,  who,  firing  at  the  flash  of 
the  shot-gun,  had  brought  him  to  the  ground. 

The  road-agent  stepped  confidently  forward. 
"Billy,"  said  he,  pleasantly,  "jest  pitch  me  that 
box." 

Billy  climbed  over  the  seat  and  dropped  a 
heavy,  iron-bound  case  to  the  ground.  "Danged 
if  I  thinks  anybody  kin  git  Buck,  thar,"  he  re 
marked,  in  thoughtful  reference  to  the  mes 
senger. 

"Now,  drive  on,"  commanded  the  road-agent. 


158  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

Three  hours  later  Billy  and  the  sobered  tender 
foot  pulled  into  Deadwood.  Ten  minutes  taught 
the  camp  what  had  occurred. 

Now,  it  must  be  premised  that  Deadwood  had 
recently  chosen  a  sheriff.  He  did  not  look  much 
like  a  sheriff,  for  he  was  small  and  weak  and  bald, 
and  most  childlike  as  to  expression  of  coun 
tenance.  But  when  I  tell  you  that  his  name  was 
Alfred,  you  will  know  that  it  was  all  right.  To 
him  the  community  looked  for  initiative.  It  ex 
pected  him  to  organise  a  posse,  which  would,  of 
course,  consist  of  every  man  in  the  place  not 
otherwise  urgently  employed,  and  to  enter  upon 
instant  pursuit.  He  did  not. 

"How  many  is  they?"  he  asked  of  Billy. 

"One  lonesome  one,"  replied  the  stage-driver. 

"I  plays  her  a  lone  hand,"  announced  Alfred. 

You  see,  Alfred  knew  well  enough  his  own  de 
fects.  He  never  could  make  plans  when  any 
body  else  was  near,  but  always  instinctively  took 
the  second  place.  Then,  when  the  other's  scheme 
had  fallen  into  ruins,  he  would  construct  a  most 
excellent  expedient  from  the  wreck  of  it.  In  the 
case  under  consideration  he  preferred  to  arrange 
his  own  campaign,  and  therefore  to  work  alone. 

By  that  time  men  knew  Alfred.  They  made 
no  objection. 


THE  TWO   CARTRIDGES  159 

"Snowin',"  observed  one  of  the  chronic  visitors 
of  the  saloon  door.  There  are  always  two  or 
three  of  such  in  every  Western  gathering. 

"One  of  you  boys  saddle  my  bronc,"  suddenly 
requested  Alfred,  and  began  to  examine  his  fire 
arms  by  the  light  of  the  saloon  lamp. 

"Yo'  ain't  aimin'  to  set  out  to-night?"  they 
asked,  incredulously. 

"I  am.  Th'  snow  will  make  a  good  trail,  but 
she'll  be  covered  come  mornin'." 

So  Alfred  set  out  alone,  at  night,  in  a  snow 
storm,  without  the  guidance  of  a  solitary  star,  to 
find  a  single  point  in  the  vastness  of  the  prairie. 

He  made  the  three  hours  of  Billy  and  the  ten 
derfoot  in  a  little  over  an  hour,  because  it  was 
mostly  down  hill.  So  the  agent  had  apparently 
four  hours  the  start  of  him,  which  discrepancy 
was  cut  down,  however,  by  the  time  consumed  in 
breaking  open  the  strong-box  after  Billy  and  the 
stage  had  surely  departed  beyond  gunshot.  The 
exact  spot  was  easily  marked  by  the  body  of 
Buck,  the  express  messenger.  Alfred  convinced 
himself  that  the  man  was  dead,  but  did  not  waste 
further  time  on  him:  the  boys  would  take  care 
of  the  remains  next  day.  He  remounted  and 
struck  out  sharp  for  the  east,  though,  according 
to  Billy's  statement,  the  agent  had  turned  north. 


160  STORIES   OF   THE    WILD   LIFE 

"He  is  alone,"  said  Alfred  to  himself,  "so  he 
ain't  in  that  Black  Hank  outfit.  Ain't  nothin' 
to  take  him  north,  an'  if  he  goes  south  he  has  to 
hit  way  down  through  the  South  Fork  trail, 
which  same  takes  him  two  weeks.  Th'  green 
backs  in  that  plunder  is  numbered,  and  old  Wells- 
Fargo  has  th'  numbers.  He  sure  has  to  pike  in 
an'  change  them  bills  afore  he  is  spotted.  So  he 
goes  to  Pierre." 

Alfred  staked  his  all  on  this  reasoning  and 
rode  blindly  eastward.  Fortunately  the  roll  of 
the  country  was  sufficiently  definite  to  enable  him 
to  keep  his  general  direction  well  enough  until 
about  three  o'clock,  when  the  snow  ceased  and  the 
stars  came  out,  together  with  the  waning  moon. 
Twenty  minutes  later  he  came  to  the  bed  of  a 
stream. 

"Up  or  down?"  queried  Alfred,  thoughtfully. 
The  state  of  the  weather  decided  him.  It  had 
been  blowing  all  night  strongly  from  the  north 
west.  Left  without  guidance  a  pony  tends  to 
edge  more  or  less  away  from  the  wind,  in  order 
to  turn  tail  to  the  weather.  Alfred  had  dili 
gently  counteracted  this  tendency  all  night,  but 
he  doubted  whether,  in  the  hurry  of  flight,  the 
fugitive  had  thought  of  it.  Instead  of  keeping 
directly  east  toward  Pierre,  he  had  probably 


THE   TWO   CARTRIDGES  161 

fallen  away  more  or  less  toward  the  south. 
"Down,"  Alfred  decided. 

He  dismounted  from  his  horse  and  began  to 
lead  the  animal  parallel  to  the  stream,  but  about 
two  hundred  yards  from  it,  first  taking  care  to 
ascertain  that  a  little  water  flowed  in  the  channel. 
On  discovering  that  there  did,  he  nodded  his  head 
in  a  satisfied  manner. 

"He  doesn't  leave  no  trail  till  she  begins  to 
snow,"  he  argued,  "an'  he  nat'rally  doesn't  ex 
pect  no  mud-turkles  like  me  a  followin'  of  him 
eastward.  Consequently  he  feeds  when  he  strikes 
water.  This  yere  is  water." 

All  of  which  seemed  satisfactory  to  Alfred. 
He  walked  on  foot  in  order  to  discover  the  trail 
in  the  snow.  He  withdrew  two  hundred  yards 
from  the  bank  of  the  stream  that  his  pony  might 
not  scent  the  other  man's  horse,  and  so  give  notice 
of  approach  by  whinnying.  After  a  time  he 
came  across  the  trail.  So  he  left  the  pony  and 
followed  it  to  the  creek-bottom  on  foot.  At  the 
top  of  the  bluff  he  peered  over  cautiously. 

"Well,  you  got  nerve!"  he  remarked  to  him 
self.  "If  I  was  runnin'  this  yere  game,  I'd  sure 
scout  with  my  blinders  off." 

The  fugitive  evidently  believed  himself  safe 
from  pursuit,  for  he  had  made  camp.  His  two 


162  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

ponies  cropped  browse  and  pawed  for  grass  in 
the  bottom  land.  He  himself  had  prepared  a 
warm  niche  and  was  sleeping  in  it  with  only  one 
blanket  over  him,  though  by  now  the  thermometer 
was  well  down  toward  zero.  The  affair  had  been 
simple.  He  had  built  a  long,  hot  fire  in  the  L 
of  an  upright  ledge  and  the  ground.  When 
ready  to  sleep  he  had  raked  the  fire  three  feet  out 
from  the  angle,  and  had  lain  down  on  the  heated 
ground  between  the  fire  and  the  ledge.  His  rifle 
and  revolver  lay  where  he  could  seize  them  at  a 
moment's  notice. 

Alfred  could  stalk  a  deer,  but  he  knew  better 
than  to  attempt  to  stalk  a  man  trained  in  the 
West.  Instead,  he  worked  himself  into  a  pro 
tected  position  and  carefully  planted  a  Winches 
ter  bullet  some  six  inches  from  the  man's  ear. 
The  man  woke  up  suddenly  and  made  an  instinc 
tive  grab  toward  his  weapons. 

"Drop  it!"  yelled  Alfred. 

So  he  dropped  it,  and  lay  like  a  rabbit  in  its 
form. 

"Jest  select  that  thar  six-shooter  by  the  end  of 
the  bar'l  and  hurl  her  from  you  some,"  advised 
the  sheriff.  "Now  the  Winchester.  Now  stand 
up  an'  let's  look  at  you."  The  man  obeyed. 
"Yo'  don't  really  need  that  other  gun,  under  th' 


THE  TWO   CARTRIDGES  163 

circumstances,"  pursued  the  little  man.  "No, don't 
fetch  her  loose  from  the  holster  none;  jest  un 
buckle  th'  whole  outfit,  belt  and  all.  Good !  Now, 
you  freeze,  and  stay  froze  right  whar  you  are." 

So  Alfred  arose  and  scrambled  down  to  the 
bottom. 

"Good-mornin',"  he  observed,  pleasantly. 

He  cast  about  him  and  discovered  the  man's 
lariat,  which  he  picked  up  and  overran  with  one 
hand  until  he  had  loosened  the  noose. 

"You-all  are  some  sizable,"  he  remarked,  in 
conversational  tones,  "an'  like  enough  you  eats 
me  up,  if  I  gets  clost  enough  to  tie  you.  Hands 
up!" 

With  a  deft  twist  and  flip  he  tossed  the  open 
noose  over  his  prisoner's  upheld  wrists  and  jerked 
it  tight. 

"Thar  you  be,"  he  observed,  laying  aside  his 
rifle. 

He  loosened  one  of  his  revolvers  suggestively 
and  approached  to  tie  the  knot. 

"Swing  her  down,"  he  commanded.  He  con 
templated  the  result.  "Don't  like  that  nohow — 
tied  in  front.  Step  through  your  hands  a  whole 
lot."  The  man  hesitated.  "Step,  I  say!"  said 
Alfred,  sharply,  at  the  same  time  pricking  the 
prisoner  with  his  long  knife. 


164  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

The  other  contorted  and  twisted  awkwardly, 
but  finally  managed  to  thrust  first  one  foot,  then 
the  other,  between  his  shackled  wrists.  Alfred 
bound  together  his  elbows  at  the  back. 

"You'll  do,"  he  approved,  cheerfully.  "Now, 
we  sees  about  grub." 

Two  flat  stones  placed  a  few  inches  apart  im 
provised  a  stove  when  fire  thrust  its  tongue  from 
the  crevice,  and  a  frying-pan  and  tin-cup  laid 
across  the  opening  cooked  the  outlaw's  provisions. 
Alfred  hospitably  ladled  some  bacon  and  coffee 
into  their  former  owner. 

"Not  that  I  needs  to,"  he  observed,  "but  I'm 
jest  that  tender-hearted." 

At  the  close  of  the  meal,  Alfred  instituted  a 
short  and  successful  search  for  the  plunder,  which 
he  found  in  the  stranger's  saddle-bag,  open  and 
unashamed. 

"Yo're  sure  a  tenderfoot  at  this  game, 
stranger,"  commented  the  sheriff.  "Thar  is 
plenty  abundance  of  spots  to  cache  such  plunder 
— like  the  linin'  of  yore  saddle,  or  a  holler  horn. 
Has  you  any  choice  of  cayuses  for  ridin'?"  indi 
cating  the  grazing  ponies. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  He  had  maintained 
a  lowering  silence  throughout  all  these  cheerful 
proceedings. 


THE   TWO   CAETRIDGES  165 

Alfred  and  his  prisoner  finally  mounted  and 
rode  northwest.  As  soon  as  they  had  scrambled 
up  the  precipitous  side  of  the  gully,  the  affair 
became  a  procession,  with  the  stranger  in  front, 
and  the  stranger's  second  pony  bringing  up  an 
obedient  rear.  Thus  the  robber  was  first  to  see 
a  band  of  Sioux  that  topped  a  distant  rise  for  a 
single  instant.  Of  course,  the  Sioux  saw  him, 
too.  He  communicated  this  discovery  to  Alfred. 

"Well,"  said  Alfred,  "they  ain't  hostile." 

"These  yere  savages  is  plenty  hostile,"  contra 
dicted  the  stranger,  "and  don't  you  make  no  mis 
take  thar.  I  jest  nat'rally  lifts  that  pinto  off  en 
them  yisterday,"  and  he  jerked  his  thumb  toward 
the  black-and-white  pony  in  the  rear. 

"And  you  camps!"  cried  Alfred,  in  pure  as 
tonishment.  "You  must  be  plumb  locoed!" 

"I  ain't  had  no  sleep  in  three  nights,"  explained 
the  other,  in  apology. 

Alfred's  opinion  of  the  man  rose  at  once. 

"Yo'  has  plumb  nerve  to  tackle  a  hold-up  un 
der  them  circumstances,"  he  observed. 

"I  sets  out  to  git  that  thar  stage;  and  I  gits 
her,"  replied  the  agent,  doggedly. 

The  savages  appeared  on  the  next  rise,  barely 
a  half-mile  away,  and  headed  straight  for  the  two 
men. 


166  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD  LIFE 

"I  reckon  yere's  where  you  takes  a  hand,"  re 
marked  Alfred  simply,  and,  riding  alongside,  he 
released  the  other's  arms  by  a  single  slash  of  his 
knife.  The  man  slipped  from  his  horse  and 
stretched  his  arms  wide  apart  and  up  over  his 
head  in  order  to  loosen  his  muscles.  Alfred  like 
wise  dismounted.  The  two,  without  further 
parley,  tied  their  horses'  noses  close  to  their  front 
fetlocks,  and  sat  down  back  to  back  on  the  surface 
of  the  prairie.  Each  was  armed  with  one  of  the 
new  44-40  Winchesters,  just  out,  and  with  a 
brace  of  Colt's  revolvers,  chambering  the  same- 
sized  cartridge  as  the  rifle. 

"How  you  heeled?"  inquired  Alfred. 

The  stranger  took  stock. 

"Fifty-two,"  he  replied. 

"Seventy  for  me,"  vouchsafed  Alfred.  "I 
goes  plenty  organised." 

Each  man  spread  a  little  semicircle  of  shells 
in  front  of  him.  At  the  command  of  the  two, 
without  reloading,  were  forty-eight  shots. 

When  the  Indians  had  approached  to  within 
about  four  hundred  yards  of  the  white  men  they 
paused.  Alfred  rose  and  held  his  hand  toward 
them,  palm  outward,  in  the  peace  sign.  His  re 
sponse  was  a  shot  and  a  chorus  of  yells. 

"I  tells  you,"  commented  the  hold-up. 


THE  TWO   CARTRIDGES  167 

Alfred  came  back  and  sat  down.  The  sav 
ages,  one  by  one,  broke  away  from  the  group  and 
began  to  circle  rapidly  to  the  left  in  a  constantly 
contracting  spiral.  They  did  a  great  deal  of 
yelling.  Occasionally  they  would  shoot.  To 
the  latter  feature  the  plainsmen  lent  an  attentive 
ear,  for  to  their  trained  senses  each  class  of  arm 
spoke  with  a  different  voice — the  old  muzzle- 
loader,  the  Remington,  the  long,  heavy  Sharp's 
50,  each  proclaimed  itself  plainly.  The  mere 
bullets  did  not  interest  them  in  the  least.  Two 
men  seated  on  the  ground  presented  but  a  small 
mark  to  the  Indians  shooting  uncleaned  weapons 
from  running  horses  at  three  or  four  hundred 
yards'  range. 

"That  outfit  is  rank  outsiders,"  concluded  Al 
fred.  "They  ain't  over  a  dozen  britch-loaders  in 
the  layout." 

"Betcher  anything  you  say  I  drops  one,"  of 
fered  the  stranger,  taking  a  knee-rest. 

"Don't  be  so  plumb  fancy,"  advised  Alfred, 
"but  turn  in  and  help." 

He  was  satisfied  with  the  present  state  of  af 
fairs,  and  was  hacking  at  the  frozen  ground  with 
his  knife.  The  light  snow  on  the  ridge-tops  had 
been  almost  entirely  drifted  away.  The 
stranger  obeyed. 


168  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD  LIFE 

On  seeing  the  men  thus  employed,  the  Indians 
turned  their  horses  directly  toward  the  group  and 
charged  in.  At  the  range  of  perhaps  two  hun 
dred  yards  the  Winchesters  began  to  speak.  Al 
fred  fired  twice  and  the  stranger  three  times. 
Then  the  circle  broke  and  divided  and  passed  by, 
leaving  an  oval  of  untrodden  ground. 

"How  many  did  you  get?"  inquired  Alfred, 
with  professional  interest. 

"Two,"  replied  the  man. 

"Two  here,"  supplemented  Alfred. 

A  commotion,  a  squeal,  a  thrashing-about  near 
at  hand  caused  both  to  turn  suddenly.  The  pinto 
pony  was  down  and  kicking.  Alfred  walked 
over  and  stuck  him  in  the  throat  to  save  a  car 
tridge. 

"Move  up,  pardner,"  said  he. 

The  other  moved  up.  Thus  the  men  became 
possessed  of  protection  from  one  side.  The  In 
dians  had  vented  a  yell  of  rage  when  the  pony 
had  dropped.  Now  as  each  warrior  approached 
a  certain  point  in  the  circle,  he  threw  his  horse 
back  on  its  haunches,  so  that  in  a  short  time  the 
entire  band  was  once  more  gathered  in  a  group. 
Alfred  and  the  outlaw  knew  that  this  manreuvre 
portended  a  more  serious  charge  than  the  im 
promptu  affair  they  had  broken  with  such  com- 


THE   TWO   CARTRIDGES  169 

parative  ease.  An  Indian  is  extremely  gregari 
ous  when  it  comes  to  open  fighting.  He  gets  a 
lot  of  encouragement  out  of  yells,  the  patter  of 
many  ponies'  hoofs,  and  the  flutter  of  an  abun 
dance  of  feathers.  Running  in  from  the  circum 
ference  of  a  circle  is  a  bit  too  individual  to  suit 
his  taste. 

Also,  the  savages  had  by  now  taken  the  meas 
ure  of  their  white  opponents.  They  knew  they 
had  to  deal  with  experience.  Suspicion  01  this 
must  have  been  aroused  by  the  practised  manner 
in  which  the  men  had  hobbled  their  horses  and 
had  assumed  the  easiest  posture  of  defence.  The 
idea  would  have  gained  strength  from  their  su 
perior  marksmanship;  but  it  would  have  become 
absolute  certainty  from  the  small  detail  that,  in 
all  this  hurl  and  rush  of  excitement,  they  had  fired 
but  five  shots,  and  those  at  close  range.  It  is 
difficult  to  refrain  from  banging  away  for  gen 
eral  results  when  so  many  marks  so  loudly  pre 
sent  themselves.  It  is  equally  fatal  to  do  so.  A 
few  misses  are  a  great  encouragement  to  a  sav 
age,  and  seem  to  breed  their  like  in  subsequent 
shooting.  They  destroy  your  own  coolness  and 
confidence,  and  they  excite  the  enemy  an  inch 
nearer  to  that  dead-line  of  the  lust  of  fighting, 
beyond  which  prudence  gives  place  to  the  fury 


170  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

of  killing.  An  Indian  is  the  most  cautious  and 
wily  of  fighters  before  he  goes  mad :  and  the  most 
terribly  reckless  after.  In  a  few  moments  four 
of  their  number  had  passed  to  the  happy  hunt 
ing-grounds,  and  they  were  left,  no  nearer  their 
prey,  to  contemplate  the  fact. 

The  tornado  moved.  It  swept  at  the  top 
jump  of  ponies  used  to  the  chase  of  the  buffalo, 
as  sudden  and  terrible  and  imminent  as  the  loom 
of  a  black  cloud  on  the  wings  of  storm,  and,  like 
it,  seeming  to  gather  speed  and  awfulness  as  it 
rushed  nearer.  Each  rider  bent  low  over  his 
pony's  neck  and  shot — a  hail  of  bullets,  which, 
while  most  passed  too  high,  nevertheless  shrieked 
and  spun  through  the  volume  of  coarser  sound. 
The  ponies  stretched  their  necks  and  opened  their 
red  mouths  and  made  their  little  feet  go  with  a 
rapidity  that  twinkled  as  bewilderingly  as  a 
picket-fence  passing  a  train.  And  the  light 
snow  swirled  and  eddied  behind  them. 

The  two  men  behind  the  dead  horse  were  not 
deceived  by  this  excitement  into  rising  to  their 
knees.  They  realised  that  this  was  the  critical 
point  in  the  fight,  and  they  shot  hard  and  fast, 
concentrating  all  the  energy  of  their  souls  into 
the  steady  glare  of  their  eyes  over  the  sights  of 
the  smoking  rifles.  In  a  moment  the  foremost 


THE  TWO   CARTRIDGES  171 

warrior  was  trying  to  leap  his  pony  at  the  barrier 
before  him,  but  the  little  animal  refused  the 
strange  jump  and  shied  to  the  left,  cannoning 
and  plunging  into  the  stream  of  braves  rushing 
in  on  that  side.  Into  the  confusion  Alfred  emp 
tied  the  last  two  shots  of  his  Winchester,  and  was 
fortunate  enough  merely  to  cripple  a  pony  with 
one  of  them.  The  kicking,  screaming,  little 
beast  interposed  a  momentary  but  effective  bar 
rier  between  the  sheriff  and  his  foes.  A  rattling 
fire  from  one  of  his  six-shooters  into  the  brown 
of  the  hesitating  charge  broke  it.  The  self- 
induced  excitement  ebbed,  and  the  Indians 
swerved  and  swept  on  by. 

On  the  other  side,  the  outlaw  had  also  man 
aged  to  kill  a  pony  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
impromptu  breastwork,  and,  direct  riding-down 
being  thus  prevented  in  front,  he  was  lying 
stretched  on  his  side,  coolly  letting  off  first  one 
revolver  then  the  other  in  the  face  of  imminent 
ruin.  Alfred's  attentions,  however,  and  the  de 
fection  of  the  right  wing,  drove  these  savages, 
too,  into  flight.  Miraculously,  neither  man  was 
more  than  scratched,  though  their  clothes  and  the 
ground  about  them  showed  the  marks  of  bullets. 
Strangely  enough,  too,  the  outlaw's  other  pony 
stood  unhurt  at  a  little  distance  whither  the  rush 


172  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

of  the  charge  had  carried  him.  Alfred  arose  and 
drove  him  back.  Then  both  men  made  a  trian 
gular  breastwork  of  the  two  dead  horses  and  their 
saddles. 

"Cyan't  do  that  more'n  once,"  observed  the  out 
law,  taking  a  long  breath. 

"They  don't  want  her  more'n  once,"  replied 
Alfred,  sagely. 

The  men  tried  to  take  score.  This  was  not 
easy.  Out  of  the  hundred  and  twelve  cartridges 
with  which  they  had  started  the  fight,  there  re 
mained  sixty-eight.  That  meant  they  had  ex 
pended  thirty-nine  in  the  last  charge  alone.  As 
near  as  they  could  make  out,  they  had  accounted 
for  eight  of  the  enemy,  four  in  the  melee  just 
finished.  Besides,  there  were  a  number  of  ponies 
down.  At  first  glance  this  might  seem  like  poor 
shooting.  It  was  not.  A  rapidly  moving  fig 
ure  is  a  difficult  rifle-mark  with  the  best  of  con 
ditions.  In  this  case  the  conditions  would  have 
rendered  an  Easterner  incapable  of  hitting  a 
feather  pillow  at  three  yards. 

And  now  began  the  most  terrible  part  of  this 
terrible    day.     A    dozen    of    the    warriors    dis' 
mounted,  made  a  short  circle  to  the  left,  and  dis 
appeared  in  a  thin  growth  of  dried  grasses,  old 
mulliens,  and  stunted,  scattered  brush  barely  six 


THE  TWO   CARTRIDGES 

inches  high.  There  seemed  hardly  cover  enough 
to  hide  a  man,  and  yet  the  dozen  were  as  com 
pletely  swallowed  up  as  though  they  had  plunged 
beneath  the  waters  of  the  sea.  Only  occasionally 
the  top  of  a  grass  tuft  or  a  greasewood  shivered. 
It  became  the  duty  of  Alfred  and  his  companion 
to  shoot  suddenly  and  accurately  at  these  mo 
tions.  This  was  necessary  in  order  to  discourage 
the  steady  concealed  advance  of  the  dozen,  who, 
when  they  had  approached  to  within  as  few  yards 
as  their  god  of  war  would  permit,  purposed  to 
rush  in  and  finish  their  opponents  out  of  hand. 
And  that  rush  could  never  be  stopped.  The 
white  men  knew  it  perfectly  well,  so  they  set  con 
scientiously  to  work  with  their  handful  of  car 
tridges  to  convince  the  reds  that  it  is  not  healthy 
to  crawl  along  ridge-tops  on  an  autumn  day. 
Sundry  outlying  Indians,  with  ammunition  to 
waste,  took  belly  and  knee  rests  and  strengthened 
the  thesis  to  the  contrary. 

The  brisk  fighting  had  warmed  the  contest 
ants'  blood.  Now  a  cold  wind  penetrated  through 
their  woollens  to  the  goose-flesh.  It  was  impossi 
ble  to  judge  of  the  effect  of  the  shots,  but  both 
knew  that  the  accuracy  of  their  shooting  was  fall 
ing  off.  Clench  his  teeth  as  he  would,  hold  his* 
breath  as  steadfastly  as  he  might,  Alfred  could 


174  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

not  accomplish  that  steady,  purposeful,  unblink 
ing  pressure  on  the  trigger  so  necessary  to  accu 
racy.  In  spite  of  himself,  the  rifle  jerked  ever 
so  little  to  the  right  during  the  fall  of  the  ham 
mer.  Soon  he  adopted  the  expedient  of  pulling 
it  suddenly  which  is  brilliant  but  uncertain.  The 
ground  was  very  cold.  Before  long  both  men 
would  have  felt  inclined  to  risk  everything  for 
the  sake  of  a  little  blood-stimulating  tramp  back 
and  forth.  The  danger  did  not  deter  them. 
Only  the  plainsman's  ingrained  horror  of  throw 
ing  away  a  chance  held  them,  shivering  pitiably, 
to  their  places. 

Still  they  managed  to  keep  the  dozen  at  a  wary 
distance,  and  even,  they  suspected,  to  hit  some. 
This  was  the  Indians'  game — to  watch;  to  wait; 
to  lie  with  infinite  patience;  to  hitch  nearer  a 
yard,  a  foot,  an  inch  even ;  and  then  to  seize  with 
the  swiftness  of  the  eagle's  swoop  an  opportunity 
which  the  smallest  imprudence,  fruit  of  weariness, 
might  offer.  One  by  one  the  precious  cartridges 
spit,  and  fell  from  the  breech-blocks  empty  and 
useless.  And  still  the  tufts  of  grass  wavered  a 
little  nearer. 

"I  wish  t'  hell,  stranger,  you-all  hadn't  edged 
off  south,"  chattered  Alfred.  "We'd  be  nearer 
th'  Pierre  trail." 


THE   TWO   CARTRIDGES  175 

"I'm  puttin'  in  my  spare  wishin*  on  them  In- 
jins,"  shivered  the  other;  "I  sure  hopes  they 
aims  to  make  a  break  pretty  quick;  I'm  near 
froze." 

About  two  o'clock  the  sun  came  out  and  the 
wind  died.  Though  its  rays  were  feeble  at  that 
time  of  year,  their  contrast  with  the  bleakness 
that  had  prevailed  during  the  morning  threw  a 
perceptible  warmth  into  the  crouching  men.  Al 
fred  succeeded,  too,  in  wriggling  a  morsel  of  raw 
bacon  from  the  pack,  which  the  two  men  shared. 
But  the  cartridges  were  running  very  low. 

"We  establishes  a  dead-line,"  suggested  Al 
fred.  "S5  long  as  they  slinks  beyond  yonder 
greasewood,  they  lurks  in  safety.  Plug  'em  this 
side  of  her." 

"C'rrect,"  agreed  the  stranger. 

This  brought  them  a  season  of  comparative 
quiet.  They  even  made  out  to  smoke,  and  so 
were  happy.  Over  near  the  hill  the  body  of 
Indians  had  gone  into  camp  and  were  taking  it 
easy.  The  job  of  wiping  out  these  troublesome 
whites  had  been  sublet,  and  they  wasted  no 
further  anxiety  over  the  affair.  This  indiffer 
ence  irritated  the  outlaw  exceedingly. 

"Damn  siwashes!"  he  grumbled. 

"Look  out!"  warned  Alfred. 


176  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

The  dead-line  was  overpassed.  Swaying  tufts 
of  vegetation  marked  the  rapid  passage  of  eel- 
like  bodies.  The  Indians  had  decided  on  an  ad 
vance,  being  encouraged  probably  by  the  latter 
inaccuracy  of  the  plainsmen's  fire.  Besides,  the 
day  was  waning.  It  was  no  cat-and-mouse 
game  now;  but  a  rush,  like  the  other  except  that 
all  but  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  yards  would  be 
made  under  cover.  The  besieged  turned  their 
attention  to  it.  Over  on  the  hill  the  bucks  had 
arisen  from  their  little  fires  of  buffalo  chips,  and 
were  watching.  On  the  summit  of  the  farther 
ridge  rode  silhouetted  sentinels. 

Alfred  selected  a  tuft  and  fired  just  ahead  of 
it.  A  crack  at  his  side  indicated  that  the  stranger, 
too,  had  gone  to  work.  It  was  a  discouraging 
and  nervous  business.  The  shooter  could  never 
tell  whether  or  not  he  had  hit.  The  only  thing 
he  was  sure  of  was  that  the  line  was  wriggling 
nearer  and  nearer.  He  felt  something  as  though 
he  were  shooting  at  a  man  with  blank  cartridges. 
This  test  of  nerve  was  probably  the  most  severe 
of  the  fight. 

But  it  was  successfully  withstood.  Alfred  felt 
a  degree  of  steadiness  return  to  him  with  the  ex 
citement  and  the  change  of  weather.  The  Win 
chester  spat  as  carefully  as  before.  Suddenly  it 


THE   TWO   CARTRIDGES  177 

could  no  longer  be  doubted  that  the  line  was  be 
ginning  to  hesitate.     The  outlaw  saw  it,  too. 

"Give  it  to  'em  good!"  he  cried. 

Both  men  shot,  and  then  again. 

The  line  wavered. 

"Two  more  shots  will  stop  'em!"  cried  the  road- 
agent,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  hammer 
clicked  against  an  empty  chamber. 

"I'm  done!"  he  cried,  hopelessly.  His  car 
tridges  were  gone. 

Alfred  laid  his  own  Winchester  on  the  ground, 
turned  over  on  his  back,  and  puffed  a  cloud  of 
smoke  straight  up  toward  the  sky. 

"Me,  too,"  said  he. 

The  cessation  of  the  shooting  had  put  an  end 
to  the  Indians'  uncertainty.  Another  moment 
would  bring  them  knowledge  of  the  state  of 
affairs. 

"Don't  get  much  outen  my  scalp,  anyway," 
said  Alfred,  uncovering  his  bald  head. 

The  sentinel  on  the  distant  ridge  was  riding 
his  pony  in  short-looped  circles  and  waving  a 
blanket  in  a  peculiar  way  above  his  head.  From 
the  grass  nine  Indians  arose,  stooped,  and  scut 
tled  off  like  a  covey  of  running  quail.  Over  by 
the  fires  warriors  were  leaping  on  their  ponies, 
and  some  were  leading  other  ponies  in  the  direc- 


178  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

tion  of  the  nine.  An  air  of  furtive  but  urgent 
haste  characterised  all  these  movements.  Alfred 
lent  an  attentive  ear. 

"Seems  a  whole  lot  like  a  rescue,"  he  remarked, 
quietly.  "I  reckon  th'  boys  been  followin'  of  my 
trail." 

The  stranger  paused  in  the  act  of  unhob- 
bling  the  one  remaining  pony.  In  the  distance, 
faintly,  could  be  heard  cheers  and  shots  intended 
as  encouragement. 

"They's  comin'  on  th'  jump,"  said  Alfred. 

By  this  time  the  stranger  had  unfastened  the 
horse. 

"I  reckon  we  quits,"  said  he,  mounting;  "I  jest 
nat'rally  takes  this  bronc,  because  I  needs  him 
more'n  you  do.  So  long.  I  may  's  well  confide 
that  I'm  feelin'  some  glad  jest  now  that  them 
In j ins  comes  along." 

And  then  his  pony  fell  in  a  heap,  and  began  to 
kick  up  dirt  and  to  snort  blood. 

"I  got  another,  so  you  just  subside  a  lot,"  com 
manded  Alfred,  recocking  his  six-shooter. 

The  stranger  lay  staring  at  him  in  astonish 
ment. 

"Thought  you  was  busted  on  catridges!"  he 
cried. 

"You-all  may  as  well  know,"  snapped  Alfred, 


THE   TWO   CABTRIDGES  179 

"that 's  long  as  I'm  an  officer  of  this  yere  district. 
I'm  a  sheriff  first  and  an  In  Jin-fighter  after 
ward." 

"What  the  hell!"  wondered  the  road-agent,  still 
in  a  daze. 

"Them's  th'  two  catridges  that  would  have 
stopped  'em,"  said  Alfred. 


IV 

THE    RACE 

This  story  is  most  blood-and-thundery,  but,  then, 
it  is  true.  It  is  one  of  the  stories  of  Alfred ;  but 
Alfred  is  not  the  hero  of  it  at  all — quite  another 
man,  not  nearly  so  interesting  in  himself  as 
Alfred. 

At  the  time,  Alfred  and  this  other  man,  whose 
name  was  Tom,  were  convoying  a  band  of  Mexi 
can  vaqueros  over  to  the  Circle-X  outfit.  The 
Circle-X  was  in  the  heat  of  a  big  round-up,  and 
had  run  short  of  men.  So  Tom  and  Alfred  had 
gone  over  to  Tucson  and  picked  up  the  best  they 
could  find,  which  best  was  enough  to  bring  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  an  old-fashioned,  straight-riding, 
swift-roping  Texas  cowman.  The  gang  was  an 
ugly  one:  it  was  sullen,  black-browed,  sinister. 
But  it,  one  and  all,  could  throw  a  rope  and  cut 
out  stock,  which  was  not  only  the  main  thing — it 
was  the  whole  thing. 

Still,  the  game  was  not  pleasant.     Either  Al- 

180 


THE   RACE  181 

fred  or  Tom  usually  rode  night-herd  on  the 
ponies — merely  as  a  matter  of  precaution — and 
they  felt  just  a  trifle  more  shut  off  by  themselves 
and  alone  than  if  they  had  ridden  solitary  over 
the  limitless  alkali  of  the  Arizona  plains.  This 
feeling  struck  in  the  deeper  because  Tom  had  just 
entered  one  of  his  brooding  spells.  Tom  and 
Alfred  had  been  chums  now  for  close  on  two 
years,  so  Alfred  knew  enough  to  leave  him  en 
tirely  alone  until  he  should  recover. 

The  primary  cause  of  Tom's  abstraction  was 
an  open-air  preacher,  and  the  secondary  cause 
was,  of  course,  a  love  affair.  These  two  things 
did  not  connect  themselves  consciously  in  Tom's 
mind,  but  they  blended  subtly  to  produce  a 
ruminative  dissatisfaction. 

When  Tom  was  quite  young  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  girl  back  in  the  Dakota  country. 
Shortly  after  a  military-post  had  been  estab 
lished  near  by,  and  Anne  Bingham  had  ceased  to 
be  spoken  of  by  mayors'  daughters  and  officers' 
wives.  Tom,  being  young,  had  never  quite  got 
ten  over  it.  It  was  still  part  of  his  nature,  and 
went  with  a  certain  sort  of  sunset,  or  that  kind  of 
star-lit  evening  in  which  an  imperceptible  haze 
dims  the  brightness  of  the  heavens. 

The  open-air  preacher  had  chosen  as  his  text 


182  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

the  words,  "passing  the  love  of  woman,"  and 
Tom,  wandering  idly  by,  had  caught  the  text. 
Somehow  ever  since  the  words  had  run  in  his 
mind.  They  did  not  mean  anything  to  him,  but 
merely  repeated  themselves  over  and  over,  just  as 
so  many  delicious  syllables  which  tickled  the  ear 
and  rolled  succulently  under  the  tongue.  For, 
you  see,  Tom  was  only  an  ordinary  battered 
Arizona  cow-puncher,  and  so,  of  course,  accord 
ing  to  the  fireside  moralists,  quite  incapable  of  the 
higher  feelings.  But  the  words  reacted  to  arouse 
memories  of  black-eyed  Anne,  and  the  memories 
in  turn  brought  one  of  his  moods. 

Tom,  and  Alfred,  and  the  ponies,  and  the  cook- 
wagon,  and  the  cook,  and  the  Mexican  vaqueros 
had  done  the  alkali  for  three  days.  Underfoot 
had  been  an  exceedingly  irregular  plain;  over 
head  an  exceedingly  bright  and  trying  polished 
sky;  around  about  an  exceedingly  monotonous 
horizon-line  and  dense  clouds  of  white  dust.  At 
the  end  of  the  third  day  everybody  was  feeling 
just  a  bit  choked  up  and  tired,  and,  to  crown  a 
series  of  petty  misfortunes,  the  fire  failed  to  re 
spond  to  Black  Sam's  endeavours.  This  made 
supper  late. 

Now  at  one  time  in  this  particular  locality 
Arizona  had  not  been  dry  and  full  of  alkali.  A^ 


THE   RACE  183 

mighty  river,  so  mighty  that  in  its  rolling  flood 
no  animal  that  lives  to-day  would  have  had  the 
slightest  chance,  surged  down  from  the  sharp- 
pointed  mountains  on  the  north,  pushed  fiercely 
its  way  through  the  southern  plains,  and  finally 
seethed  and  boiled  in  eddies  of  foam  out  into  a 
southern  sea  which  has  long  since  disappeared. 
On  its  banks  grew  strange,  bulbous  plants. 
Across  its  waters  swam  uncouth  monsters  with 
snake-like  necks.  Over  it  alternated  storms  so 
savage  that  they  seemed  to  rend  the  world,  and 
sunshine  so  hot  that  it  seemed  that  were  it  not 
for  the  bulbous  plants  all  living  things  would 
perish  as  in  an  oven. 

In  the  course  of  time  conditions  changed,  and 
the  change  brought  the  Arizona  of  to-day. 
There  are  now  no  turbid  waters,  no  bulbous 
plants,  no  uncouth  beasts,  and,  above  all,  no 
storms.  Only  the  sun  and  one  other  thing  re 
main:  that  other  thing  is  the  bed  of  the  ancient 
stream. 

On  one  side — the  concave  of  the  curve — is 
a  long  easy  slope,  so  gradual  that  one  hardly 
realises  where  it  shades  into  the  river-bottom 
itself.  On  the  other — the  convex  of  the  curve — 
where  the  swift  waters  were  turned  aside  to  a  new 
direction,  is  a  high,  perpendicular  cliff  running 


184  STORIES  OF  THE  "WILD  LIFE 

in  an  almost  unbroken  breastwork  for  a  great 
many  miles,  and  baked  as  hard  as  iron  in  this 
sunny  and  almost  rainless  climate.  Occasional 
showers  have  here  and  there  started  to  eat  out  lit 
tle  transverse  gullies,  but  with  a  few  exceptions 
have  only  gone  so  far  as  slightly  to  nick  the  crest. 
The  exceptions,  reaching  to  the  plain,  afford  steep 
and  perilous  ascents  to  the  level  above.  Anyone 
who  wishes  to  pass  the  barrier  made  by  the  prime 
val  river  must  hunt  out  for  himself  one  of  these 
narrow  passages. 

On  the  evening  in  question  the  cowmen  had 
made  camp  in  the  hollow  beyond  the  easy  slope. 
On  the  rise,  sharply  silhouetted  against  the  west, 
Alfred  rode  wrangler  to  the  little  herd  of  ponies. 
Still  farther  westward  across  the  plain  wras  the 
clay-cliff  barrier,  looking  under  the  sunset  like  a 
narrow  black  ribbon.  In  the  hollow  itself  was 
the  camp,  giving  impression  in  the  background 
of  a  scattering  of  ghostly  mules,  a  half -circle  of 
wagons,  ill-defined  forms  of  recumbent  vaqueros, 
and  then  in  the  foreground  of  Sam  with  his 
gleaming  semicircle  of  utensils,  and  his  pathetic 
little  pile  of  fuel  which  would  not  be  induced  to 
gleam  at  all. 

For,  as  has  been  said,  Black  Sam  was  having 
great  trouble  with  his  fire.  It  went  out  at  least 


THE   RACE  185 

six  times,  and  yet  each  time  it  hung  on  in  a  flicker 
ing  fashion  so  long  that  he  had  felt  encouraged 
to  arrange  his  utensils  and  distribute  his  provi 
sions.  Then  it  had  expired,  and  poor  Sam  had 
to  begin  all  over  again.  The  Mexicans  smoked 
yellow-paper  cigarettes  and  watched  his  off-and- 
on  movements  with  sullen  distrust;  they  were 
firmly  convinced  that  he  was  indulging  in  some 
sort  of  a  practical  joke.  So  they  hated  him 
fervently  and  wrapped  themselves  in  their  scr 
apes.  Tom  sat  on  a  wagon-tongue  swinging  a 
foot  and  repeating  vaguely  to  himself  in  a  sing 
song  inner  voice,  "passing  the  love  of  woman, 
passing  the  love  of  woman,"  over  and  over  again. 
His  mind  was  a  dull  blank  of  grayness.  From 
time  to  time  he  glanced  at  Sam,  but  with  no  im 
patience:  he  was  used  to  going  without.  Sam 
was  to  him  a  matter  of  utter  indifference. 

As  to  the  cook  himself,  he  had  a  perplexed 
droop  in  every  curve  of  his  rounded  shoulders. 
His  kinky  gray  wool  was  tousled  from  per 
petual  undecided  scratching,  and  his  eyes  had 
something  of  the  dumb  sadness  of  the  dog  as  he 
rolled  them  up  in  despair.  Life  was  not  a  mat 
ter  of  indifference  to  him.  Quite  the  contrary. 
The  problem  of  damp  wood  4-  matches  —  cook 
ing-fire  was  the  whole  tangle  of  existence.  There 


186  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

was  something  pitiable  in  it.  Perhaps  this  was 
because  there  is  something  more  pathetic  in 
a  comical  face  grown  solemn  than  in  the  most 
melancholy  countenance  in  the  world. 

At  last  the  moon  rose  and  the  fire  decided  to 
burn.  With  the  seventh  attempt  it  flared  ener 
getically;  then  settled  to  a  steady  glow  of  possi 
ble  flap- jacks. 

But  its  smoke  was  bitter,  and  the  evening  wind 
fitful.  Bitter  smoke  on  an  empty  stomach  might 
be  appropriately  substituted  for  the  last  straw  of 
the  proverb — when  the  proverb  has  to  do  with 
hungry  Mexicans.  Most  of  the  recumbent  va- 
queros  merely  cursed  a  little  deeper  and  drew 
their  scrapes  closer,  but  Jose  Guiterrez  grunted, 
threw  off  his  blanket,  and  approached  the  fire. 

Sam  rolled  the  whites  of  his  eyes  up  at  him  for 
a  moment,  grinned  in  a  half -perplexed  fashion, 
and  turned  again  to  his  pots  and  pans.  Jose,  be 
ing  sulky  and  childish,  wanted  to  do  something 
to  somebody,  so  he  insolently  flicked  the  end 
of  his  long  quirt  through  a  mess  of  choice  but 
still  chaotic  flap- jacks.  The  quirt  left  a  narrow 
streak  across  the  batter.  Sam  looked  up  quickly. 

"Doan  you  done  do  dat!"  he  said,  with  indig 
nation. 

He  looked  upon  the  turkey-like  Jose  for  a 


THE   RACE  187 

heavy  moment,  and  then  turned  back  to  the  cook 
ing.  In  rescuing  an  unstable  coffee-pot  a  mo 
ment  later,  he  accidentally  jostled  against  Jose's 
leg.  Jose  promptly  and  fiercely  kicked  the  whole 
outfit  into  space.  The  frying-pan  crowned  a 
sage-brush;  the  coffee-pot  rolled  into  a  hollow, 
where  it  spouted  coffee-grounds  and  water  in  a 
diminishing  stream;  the  kettle  rolled  gently  on 
its  side;  flap- jacks  distributed  themselves  impar 
tially  and  moistly;  and,  worst  of  all,  the  fire  was 
drowned  out  altogether. 

Black  Sam  began  stiffly  to  arise.  The  next 
instant  he  sank  back  with  a  gurgle  in  his  throat 
and  a  knife  thrust  in  his  side. 

The  murderer  stood  looking  down  at  his  vic 
tim.  The  other  Mexicans  stared.  The  cowboy 
jumped  up  from  the  tongue  of  the  wagon,  drew 
his  weapon  from  the  holster  at  his  side,  took  de 
liberate  aim,  and  fired  twice.  Then  he  turned  and 
began  to  run  toward  Alfred  on  the  hill. 

A  cowboy  cannot  run  so  very  rapidly.  He 
carries  such  a  quantity  of  dunnage  below  in  the 
shape  of  high  boots,  spurs,  chaps,  and  cartridge- 
belts  that  his  gait  is  a  waddling  single-foot. 
Still,  Tom  managed  to  get  across  the  little  stony 
ravine  before  the  Mexicans  recovered  from  their 
surprise  and  became  disentangled  from  their 


188  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

ponchos.  Then  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 
He  saw  that  some  of  the  vaqueros  were  running 
toward  the  arroya,  that  some  were  busily  unhob- 
bling  the  mules,  and  that  one  or  two  had  kneeled 
and  were  preparing  to  shoot.  At  the  sight  of 
these  last,  he  began  to  jump  from  side  to  side  as 
he  ran.  This  decreased  his  speed.  Half-way 
up  the  hill  he  was  met  by  Alfred  on  his  way  to 
get  in  the  game,  whatever  it  might  prove  to  be. 
The  little  man  reached  over  and  grasped  Tom's 
hand.  Tom  braced  his  foot  against  the  stirrup, 
and  in  an  instant  was  astride  behind  the  saddle. 
Alfred  turned  up  the  hill  again,  and  without  a 
word  began  applying  his  quirt  vigorously  to  the 
wiry  shoulders  of  his  horse.  At  the  top  of  the 
hill,  as  they  passed  the  grazing  ponies,  Tom 
turned  and  emptied  the  remaining  four  chambers 
of  his  revolver  into  the  herd.  Two  ponies  fell 
kicking;  the  rest  scattered  in  every  direction. 
Alfred  grunted  approvingly,  for  this  made  pur 
suit  more  difficult,  and  so  gained  them  a  little 
more  time. 

Now  both  Alfred  and  Tom  knew  well  enough 
that  a  horse  carrying  two  men  cannot  run  away 
from  a  horse  carrying  one  man,  but  they  also 
knew  the  country,  and  this  knowledge  taught 
them  that  if  they  could  reach  the  narrow  passage 


THE  RACE 

through  the  old  clay  bluff,  they  might  be  able  to 
escape  to  Peterson's,  which  was  situated  a  number 
of  miles  beyond.  This  would  be  possible,  be 
cause  men  climb  faster  when  danger  is  behind 
them  than  when  it  is  in  front.  Besides,  a  brisk 
defence  could  render  even  an  angry  Mexican 
a  little  doubtful  as  to  just  when  he  should  be 
gin  to  climb.  Accordingly,  Alfred  urged  the 
pony  across  the  flat  plain  of  the  ancient  river 
bed  toward  the  nearest  and  only  break  in  the  cliff. 
Fifteen  miles  below  was  the  regular  passage. 
Otherwise  the  upper  mesa  was  as  impregnable  as 
an  ancient  fortress.  The  Mexicans  had  by  this 
time  succeeded  in  roping  some  of  the  scattered 
animals,  and  were  streaming  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  shouting  wildly.  Alfred  looked  back  and 
grinned.  Tom  waved  his  wide  sombrero  mock 
ingly. 

When  they  approached  the  ravine,  they  found 
the  sides  almost  perpendicular  and  nearly  bare. 
Its  bed  was  V-shaped,  and  so  cut  up  with  minia 
ture  gullies,  fantastic  turrets  and  spires,  and  so 
undermined  by  former  rains  as  to  be  almost  im 
passable.  It  sloped  gently  at  first,  but  afterward 
more  rapidly,  and  near  the  top  was  straight  up 
and  down  for  two  feet  or  more.  As  the  men 
reached  it,  they  threw  themselves  from  the  horse 


190  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

and  commenced  to  scramble  up,  leading  the  ani 
mal  by  the  bridle-rein.  From  riding  against  the 
sunset  their  eyes  were  dazzled,  so  this  was  not 
easy.  The  horse  followed  gingerly,  his  nose 
close  to  the  ground. 

It  is  well  known  that  quick,  short  rains  fol 
lowed  by  a  burning  sun  tend  to  undermine  the 
clay  surface  of  the  ground  and  to  leave  it  with  a 
hard  upper  shell,  beneath  which  are  cavities  of 
various  depths.  Alfred  and  Tom,  as  experienced 
men,  should  have  foreseen  this,  but  they  did  not. 
Soon  after  entering  the  ravine  the  horse  broke 
through  into  one  of  the  underground  cavities  and 
fell  heavily  on  his  side.  When  he  had  scrambled 
somehow  to  his  feet,  he  stood  feebly  panting,  his 
nostrils  expanded. 

"How  is  it,  Tom?"  called  Alfred,  who  was 
ahead. 

"Shoulder  out,"  said  Tom,  briefly. 

Alfred  turned  back  without  another  word,  and 
putting  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol  against  the  pony's 
forehead  just  above  the  line  of  the  eyes  he  pulled 
the  trigger.  With  the  body  the  two  men  impro 
vised  a  breastwork  across  a  little  hummock.  Just 
as  they  dropped  behind  it  the  Mexicans  clattered 
up,  riding  bareback.  Tom  coolly  reloaded  his 
pistol. 


THE   RACE  191 

The  Mexicans,  too,  were  dazzled  from  riding 
against  the  glow  in  the  west,  and  halted  a  mo 
ment  in  a  confused  mass  at  the  mouth  of  the 
ravine.  The  two  cowboys  within  rose  and  shot 
rapidly.  Three  Mexicans  and  two  ponies  fell. 
The  rest  in  wild  confusion  slipped  rapidly  to  the 
right  and  left  beyond  the  Americans'  line  of 
sight.  Three  armed  with  Winchesters  made  a 
long  detour  and  dropped  quietly  into  the  sage 
brush  just  beyond  accurate  pistol-range.  There 
they  lay  concealed,  watching.  Then  utter  silence 
fell. 

The  rising  moon  shone  full  and  square  into  the 
ravine,  illuminating  every  inch  of  the  ascent.  A 
very  poor  shot  could  hardly  miss  in  such  a  light 
and  with  such  a  background.  The  two  cowmen 
realised  this  and  settled  down  more  comfortably 
behind  their  breastwork.  Tom  cautiously  raised 
the  pony's  head  with  a  little  chunk  of  rock,  thus 
making  a  loophole  through  which  to  keep  tab  on 
the  enemy,  after  which  he  rolled  on  his  belly  and 
began  whittling  in  the  hard  clay,  for  Tom  had  the 
carving  habit — like  many  a  younger  boy.  Al 
fred  carefully  extracted  a  short  pipe  from  be 
neath  his  chaparejos,  pushed  down  with  his  blunt 
forefinger  the  charge  with  which  it  was  already 
loaded,  and  struck  a  match.  He  poised  this  for 
a  moment  above  the  bowl  of  the  pipe. 


192  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

"What's  the  row  anyway?"  he  inquired,  with 
pardonable  curiosity. 

"Now,  it's  jest  fifteen  mile  to  th'  cut,"  said 
Tom,  disregarding  Alfred's  question  entirely, 
"an'  of  co'se  they's  goin'  to  send  a  posse  down 
thar  on  th'  keen  jump.  That'll  take  clost  onto 
three  hours  in  this  light.  Then  they'll  jest  pot 
us  a  lot  from  on  top." 

Alfred  puffed  three  times  toward  the  moon 
light,  and  looked  as  though  the  thing  were  suffi 
ciently  obvious  without  wasting  so  much  breath 
over  it. 

"We've  jest  got  to  git  out!"  concluded  Tom, 
earnestly. 

Alfred  grunted. 

"An'  how  are  we  goin'  to  do  it?" 

Alfred  paused  in  the  act  of  blowing  a  cloud. 

"Because,  if  we  makes  a  break,  those  Greasers 
jest  nat 'rally  plugs  us  from  behind  th'  minute  we 
begins  to  climb." 

Alfred  condescended  to  nod.  Tom  suspended 
his  whittling  for  a  reply. 

"Well,"  said  Alfred,  taking  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth — Tom  contentedly  took  up  whittling 
again — "there's  only  one  way  to  do  it,  and  that's 
to  keep  them  so  damn  busy  in  front  that  they 
can't  plug  us." 


THE  RACE  19ft 

Tom  looked  perplexed. 

"We  just  got  to  take  our  chances  on  the  climb 
ing.  Of  course,  there's  bound  to  be  th'  risk  of 
accident.  But  when  I  give  th'  word,  you  mosey., 
and  if  one  of  them  pots  you,  it'll  be  because  my 
six-shooter's  empty." 

"But  you  can't  expec'  t'  shoot  an  climb!"  ob 
jected  Tom. 

"Course  not,"  replied  Alfred,  calmly.  "Divi 
sion  of  labour:  you  climb;  I  shoot." 

A  light  dawned  in  Tom's  eyes,  and  he  shut  his 
jaws  with  a  snap. 

"I  guess  notl"  said  he,  quietly. 

"Yo'  laigs  is  longer,"  Alfred  urged,  in  his  gen 
tle  voice,  "and  yo'll  get  to  Peterson's  quicker;" 
and  then  he  looked  in  Tom's  eyes  and  changed  his- 
tone.  "All  right!"  he  said,  in  a  business-like 
manner.  "I'll  toss  you  for  it." 

For  reply,  Tom  fished  out  an  old  pack  of 
cards. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  proposed,  triumphantly,  "I'll 
turn  you  fer  it.  First  man  that  gits  a  jack  in  th' 
hand -out  stays." 

He  began  to  manipulate  the  cards,  lying 
cramped  on  his  side,  and  in  doing  so  dropped  two 
or  three.  Alfred  turned  to  pick  them  up.  Tom 
deftly  slipped  the  jack  of  diamonds  to  the  bottom 


194  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

of  the  pack.  He  inserted  in  the  centre  those  Al 
fred  handed  him,  and  began  at  once  to  deal. 

"Thar's  yore's,"  he  said,  laying  out  the  four  of 
clubs,  "an'  yere's  mine,"  he  concluded,  producing 
the  jack  of  diamonds.  "Luck's  ag'in  me  early 
in  th'  game,"  was  his  cheerful  comment. 

For  a  minute  Alfred  was  silent,  and  a  decided 
objection  appeared  in  his  eyes.  Then  his  instinct 
of  fair  play  in  the  game  took  the  ascendant.  He 
kicked  off  his  chaps  in  the  most  business-like  man 
ner,  unbuckled  his  six-shooter  and  gave  it  to  Tom, 
and  perched  his  hat  on  the  end  of  his  quirt,  which 
he  then  raised  slowly  above  the  pony's  side  for 
the  purpose  of  drawing  the  enemy's  fire.  He 
did  these  things  quickly  and  without  heroics,  be 
cause  he  was  a  plainsman.  Hardly  had  the  bul 
lets  from  three  Winchesters  spatted  against  the 
clay  before  he  was  up  and  climbing  for  dear 
life. 

The  Mexicans  rushed  to  the  opening  from 
either  side,  fully  expecting  to  be  able  either  to 
take  wing-shots  at  close  range,  or  to  climb  so  fast 
as  to  close  in  before  the  cowboys  would  have  time 
to  make  a  stand  at  the  top.  In  this  they  shut  off 
their  most  effective  fire — that  of  the  three  men 
with  the  Winchesters — and,  instead  of  getting 
wing-shots  themselves,  they  received  an  enthusi- 


THE  RACE  195 

astic  battering  from  Tom  at  the  range  of  six 
yards.  Even  a  tenderfoot  cannot  over-shoot  at 
six  yards.  What  was  left  of  the  Mexicans  dis 
appeared  quicker  than  they  had  come,  and  the 
three  of  the  Winchesters  scuttled  back  to  cover 
like  a  spent  covey  of  quail. 

Tom  then  lit  Alfred's  pipe,  and  continued  his 
excellent  sculpture  in  the  bed  of  hard  clay.  He 
knew  nothing  more  would  happen  until  the  posse 
came.  The  game  had  passed  out  of  his  hands. 
It  had  become  a  race  between  a  short-legged  man 
on  foot  and  a  band  of  hard  riders  on  the  backs  of 
very  good  horses.  Viewing  the  matter  dispas 
sionately,  Tom  would  not  have  cared  to  bet  on 
the  chances. 

As  has  been  stated,  Alfred  was  a  small  man 
and  his  legs  were  short — and  not  only  short,  but 
unused  to  exertion  of  any  kind,  for  Alfred's  day 
light  hours  were  spent  on  a  horse.  At  the  end  of 
said  legs  were  tight  boots  with  high  French  heels, 
which  most  Easterners  would  have  considered  a 
silly  affectation,  but  which  all  Westerners  knew 
to  be  purposeful  in  the  extreme — they  kept  his 
feet  from  slipping  forward  through  the  wide  stir 
rups.  In  other  respects,  too,  Alfred  was  handi 
capped.  His  shoulders  were  narrow  and  slop 
ing  and  his  chest  was  flat.  Indoors  and  back 


196  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

East  he  would  probably  have  been  a  consump 
tive  ;  out  here,  he  was  merely  short-winded. 

So  it  happened  that  Alfred  lost  the  race. 

The  wonder  was  not  that  he  lost,  but  that  he 
succeeded  in  finishing  at  Peterson's  at  all.  He 
did  it  somehow,  and  even  made  a  good  effort  to 
ride  back  with  the  rescuing  party,  but  fell  like  a 
log  when  he  tried  to  pick  up  his  hat.  So  some 
one  took  off  his  boots,  also,  and  put  him  to  bed. 

As  to  the  rescuing  party,  it  disbanded  less  than 
an  hour  later.  Immediately  afterward  it  reor 
ganized  into  a  hunting  party — and  its  game  was 
men.  The  hunt  was  a  long  one,  and  the  game 
was  bagged  even  unto  the  last,  but  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there. 

Poor  Tom  was  found  stripped  to  the  hide,  and 
hacked  to  pieces.  Mexicans  are  impulsive,  espe 
cially  after  a  few  of  them  have  been  killed.  His 
equipment  had  been  stolen.  The  naked  horse 
and  the  naked  man,  bathed  in  the  light  of  a  gray 
dawn,  that  was  all — except  that  here  and  there 
fluttered  bits  of  paper  that  had  once  been  a  pack 
of  cards.  The  clay  slab  was  carved  deeply — a 
man  can  do  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  with  two 
hours  to  waste.  Most  of  the  decorative  effects 
were  arrows,  or  hearts,  or  brands,  but  in  one  cor 
ner  were  the  words,  "passing  the  love  of  woman," 


THE  EACE  197 

which  was  a  little  impressive  after  all,  even 
though  Tom  had  not  meant  them,  being,  as  I 
said,  only  an  ordinary  battered  Arizona  cow- 
puncher  incapable  of  the  higher  feelings. 

How  do  I  know  he  played  the  jack  of  dia 
monds  on  purpose?  Why,  I  knew  Tom,  and 
that's  enough. 


V 

THE    SAVING    GRACE 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  editor  of  a  maga 
zine  who  had  certain  ideas  concerning  short  sto 
ries.  This  is  not  wonderful,  for  editors  have  such 
ideas ;  and  when  they  find  a  short  story  which  cor 
responds,  they  accept  it  with  joy  and  pay  good 
sums  for  it.  This  particular  editor  believed  that 
a  short  story  should  be  realistic.  "Let  us  have 
things  as  they  are!"  he  was  accustomed  to  cry  to 
his  best  friend,  or  the  printer's  devil,  or  the  office 
cat,  whichever  happened  to  be  the  handiest.  "Life 
is  great  enough  to  say  things  for  itself,  without 
having  to  be  helped  out  by  the  mawkish  senti 
mentality  of  an  idiot!  Permit  us  to  see  actual 
people,  living  actual  lives,  in  actual  houses,  and 
I  should  hope  we  have  common-sense  enough  to 
draw  our  own  morals!"  He  usually  made  these 
chaotic  exclamations  after  reading  through  sev 
eral  pages  of  very  neat  manuscript  in  which  the 
sentences  were  long  and  involved,  and  in  which 

198 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  199 

were  employed  polysyllabic  adjectives  of  a  poetic 
connotation.  This  editor  liked  short,  crisp  sen 
tences.  He  wanted  his  adjectives  served  hot.  He 
despised  poetic  connotation.  Being  only  an  edi 
tor,  his  name  was  Brown.  If  he  had  been  a 
writer,  he  would  have  had  three  names,  begin 
ning  with  successive  letters  of  the  alphabet. 

Now,  one  day,  it  happened  that  there  appeared 
before  this  editor,  Brown,  a  young  man  bearing 
a  roll  of  manuscript.  How  he  had  gotten  by  the 
office  boy  Brown  could  not  conceive,  and  rolled 
manuscript  usually  gave  him  spasms.  The 
youth,  however,  presented  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  Brown's  best  friend.  He  said  he  had  a 
story  to  submit,  and  he  said  it  with  a  certain  ap 
pearance  of  breathlessness  at  the  end  of  the  sen 
tence,  which  showed  Brown  that  it  was  his  first 
story.  Brown  frowned  inwardly,  and  smiled  out 
wardly.  He  begged  the  youth  to  take  a  seat. 
As  all  the  seats  were  filled  with  unopened  papers 
and  unbound  books,  the  youth  said  he  preferred 
to  stand. 

Brown  asked  the  youth  questions,  in  a  per 
functory  manner,  not  because  he  cared  to  know 
anything  about  him,  but  because  he  liked  the  man 
who  had  written  the  letter.  The  youth's  name 
proved  to  be  Severne,  and  he  was  the  most 


200  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD  LIFE 

serious-minded  youth  who  had  ever  stepped  from 
college  into  writing.  He  spoke  of  ideals.  Brown 
concluded  that  the  youth's  story  probably  dealt 
with  the  time  of  the  Chaldsean  astronomers,  and 
contained  a  deep  symbolical  truth,  couched  in 
language  of  the  school  of  Bulwer  Lytton  or 
Marie  Corelli.  So,  after  the  youth  had  gone,  he 
seized  the  roll  of  manuscript,  for  the  purpose  of 
glancing  through  it.  If  he  had  imagined  the 
story  of  any  merit,  he  would  not  have  been  in 
such  haste;  but  as  his  best  friend  had  introduced 
the  writer,  he  thought  he  would  like  to  get  a  dis 
agreeable  task  over  at  once. 

He  glanced  the  story  through.  Then  he  read 
it  carefully.  Then  he  slammed  it  down  hard  on 
his  desk — to  the  vast  confusion  of  some  hundreds 
of  loose  memoranda,  which  didn't  matter  much, 
anyway — and  uttered  a  big,  bad  word.  The  sen 
tences  in  the  story  were  short  and  crisp.  The 
adjectives  were  served  very  hot  indeed.  There 
was  not  a  single  bit  of  poetic  connotation.  It 
described  life  as  it  really  was. 

Brown,  the  editor,  published  the  story,  and 
paid  a  good  price  for  it.  Severne,  the  author, 
wrote  more  stories,  and  sold  them  to  Brown.  The 
two  men  got  to  be  very  good  friends,  and  Severne 
heard  exactly  how  Brown  liked  short  stories  and 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  201 

why,  and  how  his,  Severne's,  stories  were  just 
that  kind. 

All  this  would  have  been  quite  an  ideal  condi 
tion  of  affairs,  and  an  object-lesson  to  a  harsh 
world  and  other  editors,  were  it  not  that  Severne 
was  serious-minded.  He  had  absolutely  no  sense 
of  humour.  Perspectives  there  were  none  for 
him,  and  due  proportions  did  not  exist.  He  took 
life  hard.  He  looked  upon  himself  gravely  as  a 
serious  proposition,  like  the  Nebular  Hypothesis 
or  Phonetic  Reform.  The  immediate  conse 
quence  was  that,  having  achieved  his  success 
through  realism,  he  placed  realism  on  a  pedestal 
and  worshipped  it  as  the  only  true  (literary)  god. 
Severne  became  a  realist  of  realists.  He  ran  it 
into  the  ground.  He  would  not  describe  a  sin 
gle  incident  that  he  had  not  viewed  from  start  to 
finish  with  his  own  eyes.  He  did  not  have  much 
to  do  with  feelings  direct,  but  such  as  were  nec 
essary  to  his  story  he  insisted  on  experiencing  in 
his  own  person ;  otherwise  the  story  remained  un 
written.  And  as  for  emotions — such  as  anger, 
or  religion,  or  fear — he  would  attempt  none 
whose  savour  he  had  not  tasted  for  himself.  Un 
kind  and  envious  rivals — not  realists — insisted 
that  once  Severne  had  deliberately  gotten  very 
drunk  on  Bowery  whiskey  in  order  that  he  might 


202  STORIES   OF   THE    WILD   LIFE 

describe  the  sensations  of  one  of  his  minor  char 
acters  in  such  a  condition.  Certain  it  is,  he  soon 
gained  the  reputation  among  the  unintelligent  of 
being  a  crazy  individual,  who  paid  people  re 
markably  well  to  do  strange  and  meaningless 
things  for  him.  He  was  always  experimenting 
on  himself  and  others. 

This  was  ridiculous  enough,  but  it  would 
hardly  have  affected  anyone  but  crusty  old 
cranks  who  delight  in  talking  about  "young 
fools,"  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  Severne  was 
in  love.  And  that  brings  us  to  the  point  of  our 
story. 

Of  course  he  was  in  love  in  a  most  serious- 
minded  fashion.  He  did  not  get  much  fun  out 
of  it.  He  brooded  most  of  the  time  over  lovers' 
duties  to  each  other  and  mankind.  He  had  like 
wise  an  exalted  conception  of  the  sacred,  holy, 
and  lofty  character  of  love  itself.  This  is  com 
mendable,  but  handicaps  a  man  seriously.  Girls 
do  not  care  for  that  kind  of  love  as  a  steady  thing. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  insinuate  that  those  quite 
angelic  creatures  ever  actually  want  to  be  kissed ; 
but  if,  by  any  purely  accidental  chance,  circum 
stances  bring  it  about  that,  without  their  consent 
or  suspicion,  a  brute  of  a  man  might  surprise 
them  awfully — well,  said  brute  does  not  gain 


THE    SAVING    GRACE  203 

much  by  not  springing  the  surprise.  Being 
adored  on  a  pedestal  is  nice — in  public.  So  you 
must  see  that  Severne's  status  in  ordinary  cir 
cumstances  would  be  precarious.  Conceive  his 
fearful  despair  at  finding  his  heart  irrevocably 
committed  to  a  young  lady  as  serious-minded  as 
himself,  equally  lacking  in  humour,  and  devoted 
mind  and  soul  to  the  romantic  or  idealistic  school 
of  fiction!  They  often  discussed  the  point  seri 
ously  and  heatedly.  Each  tried  conscientiously 
to  convert  the  other.  As  usual,  the  attempt,  after 
a  dozen  protracted  interviews,  ended  in  the  girl's 
losing  her  temper.  This  made  Severne  angry. 
Girls  are  so  unreasonable ! 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  care  how  your  foolish 
imaginary  people  brush  their  teeth  and  button 
their  suspenders  and  black  their  boots?  I  know 
how  old  man  Smith  opposite  does,  and  that  is 
more  than  enough  for  me  I"  she  cried. 

"The  insight  into  human  nature  expresses 
itself  thus,"  he  argued,  gloomily. 

"Rubbish!"  she  rejoined.  "The  idea  of  a 
man's  wasting  the  talents  heaven  has  given  him 
in  describing  as  minutely  and  accurately  as  he  can 
all  the  nasty,  little,  petty  occurrences  of  every 
day  life!  It  is  sordid!" 

"The  beautiful  shines  through  the  dreariness, 


204  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

as  it  does  in  the  real  life  people  live,"  he  objected, 
stubbornly. 

"The  beautiful  is  in  the  imagination,"  she 
cried,  with  some  heat;  "and  the  imagination  is 
God-given;  it  is  the  only  direct  manifestation  of 
the  divine  on  earth.  Without  imagination  no 
writing  can  have  life." 

As  this  bordered  on  sentiment,  abhorred  of 
realism,  Severne  muttered  something  that  sound 
ed  like  "fiddlesticks."  They  discussed  the  rela 
tion  of  imagination  to  literature  on  this  latter 
basis.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  discussion,  Miss 
Melville,  for  that  was  her  name,  delivered  the 
following  ultimatum : 

"Well,  I  tell  you  right  now,  Robert  Severne, 
that  I'll  never  marry  a  man  who  has  not  more 
soul  in  him  than  that.  I  am  very  much  disap 
pointed  in  you.  I  had  thought  you  possessed  of 
more  nobility  of  character!" 

"Don't  say  that,  Lucy,"  he  begged,  in  gen 
uine  alarm.  Serious-minded  youths  never  know 
enough  not  to  believe  what  a  girl  says. 

"I  will  say  that,  and  I  mean  it!  I  never  want 
to  see  you  again !" 

"Does  that  mean  that  our  engagement  is 
broken?"  he  stammered,  not  daring  to  believe  his 
ears. 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  205 

"I  should  think,  sir,  that  a  stronger  hint  would 
be  unnecessary." 

He  bowed  his  head  miserably.  "Isn't  there 
anything  I  can  do,  Lucy?  I  don't  want  to  be 
sent  off  like  this.  I  do  love  you !" 

She  considered.  "Yes,  there  is,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment.  "You  can  write  a  romantic 
story  and  publish  it  in  a  magazine.  Then,  and 
not  until  then,  will  I  forgive  you." 

She  turned  coldly,  and  began  to  examine  a 
photograph  on  the  mantelpiece.  After  an  ap 
parently  interminable  period,  receiving  no  reply, 
she  turned  sharply. 

"Well!"  she  demanded. 

Now,  in  the  interval,  Severne  had  been  en 
gaged  in  building  a  hasty  but  interesting  mental 
pose.  He  had  recalled  to  mind  numerous  his 
torical  and  fictitious  instances  in  which  the  man 
has  been  tempted  by  the  woman  to  depart  from 
his  heaven-born  principles.  In  some  of  these  in 
stances,  when  the  woman  had  tempted  success 
fully,  the  man  had  dwelt  thenceforth  in  misery 
and  died  in  torment,  amid  the  execrations  of  man 
kind.  In  others,  having  resisted  the  siren,  he  had 
glowed  with  a  high  and  exalted  happiness,  and 
finally  had  ascended  to  upper  regions  between 
applauding  ranks  of  angels — which  was  not 


206  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD  LITE 

realism  in  the  least.  Art,  said  Severne  to  him 
self,  is  an  enduring  truth.  Human  passions 
are  misleading.  Self-sacrifice  is  noble.  He  re 
solved  on  the  spot  to  become  a  martyr  to  his 
art. 

"I  will  never  do  it!"  he  answered,  and  stalked 
majestically  from  the  room. 

Severne  took  his  trouble  henceforward  in  a 
becomingly  serious-minded  manner.  For  many 
years  he  was  about  to  live  shrouded  in  gloom — a 
gloom  in  whose  twilight  could  be  dimly  discerned 
the  shattered  wreck  of  his  life.  After  a  long 
period,  from  the  debris  of  said  wreck,  he  would 
build  the  structure  of  a  great  literary  work  of 
art,  which  all  mankind  would  look  upon  with  awe, 
but  which  he,  standing  apart,  would  eye  with  in 
difference,  all  joy  being  stricken  dead  by  his 
memories  of  the  past.  But  thfrt  was  in  the  future. 
Just  now  he  was  in  the  gloom  business.  So,  be 
ing  a  wealthy  youth,  he  decided  to  go  far,  far 
away.  This  was  necessary  in  order  that  he  might 
bury  his  grief. 

He  rather  fancied  battle-fields  and  carnage, 
but  there  were  no  wars.  It  would  add  to  the 
picture  if  he  could  return  bronzed  and  battle- 
scarred,  but  as  that  was  impossible,  he  resolved 
to  return  bronzed,  at  any  rate.  So  he  bought  a 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  207 

ticket  to  a  small  town  in  Wyoming.  There  he 
and  his  steamer-trunk  boarded  Thompson's  stage, 
and  journeyed  to  Placer  Creek,  where  the  two  of 
them,  he  and  the  trunk,  took  up  their  quarters  in 
a  little  board-ceiled  room  in  the  Prairie  Dog 
Hotel. 

The  place  was  admirably  adapted  for  gloom 
ing.  It  was  a  ramshackle  affair  of  four  streets 
and  sixteen  saloons.  Some  of  the  houses,  and 
all  of  the  saloons,  had  once  been  painted.  In 
front  were  hitching-rails.  To  the  hitching-rails, 
at  all  times  of  the  day,  were  tied  ponies  patiently 
turning  their  tails  to  the  Wyoming  breezes. 
Wyoming  breezes  are  always  going  somewhere 
at  the  rate  of  from  thirty  to  sixty  miles  an  hour. 
Beyond  the  town,  in  one  direction,  were  some 
low  mountains,  well  supplied  with  dark  gorges, 
narrow  canons,  murmuring  water-falls,  dashing 
brooks,  and  precipitous  descents.  Beyond  the 
town,  in  the  other  direction,  lay  a  broad,  rolling 
country,  on  which  cattle  and  cowboys  dwelt 
amid  profanity  and  dust.  Severne  arose  in  a  cold 
room,  washed  his  face  in  hard  water,  and  de 
scended  to  breakfast.  The  breakfast  could  not 
have  been  better  adapted  to  beginning  a  day  of 
gloom.  It  started  out  with  sticky  oatmeal,  and 
ended  with  clammy  cakes,  between  which  was 


208  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

much  horror.  After  breakfast,  he  wandered  in 
the  dark  gorges,  narrow  canons,  et  cetera,  and 
contemplated  with  melancholy  but  approving  in 
terest  his  noble  sacrifice  and  the  wreck  of  his 
life.  Thence  he  returned  to  town. 

In  town,  various  incomprehensible  individuals 
with  a  misguided  sense  of  humour  did  things  to 
him,  the  reason  of  which  he  could  not  understand 
in  the  least,  mainly  because  he  had  himself  no 
sense  of  humour,  misguided  or  otherwise.  The 
things  they  did  frightened  and  bewildered  him. 
But  he  examined  them  gravely  through  his  short 
sighted  spectacles,  noting  just  how  they  were 
done,  just  how  their  perpetrators  looked  and 
acted,  and  just  how  he  felt. 

After  some  days  his  literary  instincts  perforce 
awoke.  In  spite  of  his  gloom,  he  caught  him 
self  sifting  and  assorting  and  placing  things  in 
their  relative  values.  In  fine,  he  began  to  con 
ceive  a  Western  story.  Shortly  after,  he  cleaned 
his  fountain  pen,  by  inserting  a  thin  card  between 
the  gold  and  the  rubber  feeder,  and  sat  down  to 
write.  As  he  wrote  he  grew  more  and  more 
pleased  with  the  result.  The  sentences  became 
crisper  and  crisper.  The  adjectives  fairly  siz 
zled.  Poetic  connotation  faded  as  a  mountain 
mist.  And  he  remembered  and  described  just 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  209 

how  Alkali  Ike  spit  through  his  mustache — 
which  was  disgusting,  but  real.  It  was  his  mas 
terpiece.  He  wrote  on  excitedly.  Never  was 
such  a  short  story! 

But  then  there  came  a  pause.  He  had  suc 
cessfully  mounted  his  hero,  and  started  him  in 
full  flight  down  the  dark  gorge  or  narrow  canon 
— I  forget  which — pursued  by  the  avenging 
band.  There  interposed  here  a  frightful  diffi 
culty.  He  did  not  know  how  a  man  felt  when 
pursued  by  an  avenging  band.  He  had  never 
been  pursued  by  ai\  avenging  band  himself. 
What  was  he  to  do?  To  be  sure,  he  could  imag 
ine  with  tolerable  distinctness  the  sensations  to  be 
experienced  in  such  a  crisis.  He  could  have  put 
them  on  paper  with  every  appearance  of  realism. 
But  he  had  no  touchstone  by  which  to  test  their 
truth.  He  might  be  unconsciously  false  to  his 
art,  to  which  he  had  vowed  allegiance  at  such  cost ! 
It  would  never  do. 

So,  naturally,  he  did  the  obvious  thing — that 
is  to  say,  the  obvious  thing  to  a  serious-minded 
writer  with  no  sense  of  humour.  He  went  forth 
and  sought  an  acquaintance  named  Colorado 
Jim,  and  made  to  him  a  proposition.  It  took 
Severne  just  two  hours  and  six  drinks  to  per 
suade  Colorado  Jim.  At  the  end  of  that  time 


210  STORIES    OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

Colorado  Jim,  in  his  turn,  went  forth,  shaking 
his  head  doubtfully,  and  emitting  from  time  to 
time  cavernous  chuckles  which  bubbled  up  from 
his  interior  after  the  well-known  manner  of  the 
"Old  Faithful"  geyser.  He  hunted  out  six  part 
ners  of  his  own — "pards,"  he  called  them — to 
whom  he  spoke  at  length.  The  six  pards  stared 
at  Colorado  Jim  in  gasping  silence  for  some 
time.  Then  the  seven  went  into  a  committee  of 
the  whole.  The  decision  of  the  committee  was 
that  the  tenderfoot  was  undoubtedly  crazy,  harm 
less,  and  to  be  humoured — at  a  price.  Besides, 
the  humouring  would  be  fun.  After  a  number 
of  drinks,  Colorado  Jim  and  the  pards  concluded 
that  it  would  be  lots  of  fun! 

Early  the  next  morning,  they  rode  out  of  town 
in  the  direction  of  the  hills.  At  the  entrance  to 
the  dark  gorge — or  deep  canon — they  met  Sev- 
erne,  also  mounted.  After  greetings,  the  latter 
distributed  certain  small  articles. 

"Now,"  said  he,  most  gravely,  "I  will  ride 
ahead  about  as  far  as  that  rock  there,  and  when  I 
get  ready  to  start,  I  will  wave  my  hand.  You're 
to  chase  me  just  as  you'd  chase  a  real  horse-thief, 
and  I'll  try  to  keep  ahead  of  you.  You  keep 
shooting  with  the  blank  cartridges  as  fast  as  you 
can.  Understand?" 


THE   SAVING  GRACE  211 

They  said  they  did.  They  did  not.  But  it  was 
fun. 

Severne  rode  to  the  bowlder  in  the  dark  gorge 
— I  am  sure  it  was  the  dark  gorge — and  turned. 
The  pards  were  lined  up  in  eagerness  for  the 
start.  They  had  made  side  bets  as  to  who  would 
get  there  first.  He  waved  his  hand,  and  struck 
spurs  to  his  horse.  The  pursuit  began. 

The  horse  on  which  Severne  was  mounted  was 
a  good  one.  The  way  he  climbed  up  through  that 
dark  gorge  was  a  caution  to  thoroughbreds.  Be 
hind  whooped  the  joyous  seven,  and  the  cracking 
of  pistols  was  a  delight  to  the  ear.  The  outfit 
swept  up  the  gulch  like  a  whirlwind. 

Severne  became  quite  excited.  The  swift  mo 
tion  was  exhilarating.  He  mentally  noted  at 
least  a  hundred  and  ten  most  realistic  minor  de 
tails.  He  felt  that  his  money  had  not  been 
wasted.  And  then  he  noticed  that  he  was  grad 
ually  drawing  ahead  of  his  pursuit.  Better  and 
better!  He  would  not  only  experience  pursuit, 
but  he  would  achieve  in  his  own  person  a  gen 
uine  escape,  for  he  knew  that,  whatever  the 
mythical  character  of  the  bullets,  the  Westerners 
had  a  real  enough  intention  of  racing  each  other 
and  him  to  the  top  of  the  ridge.  He  plied  his 
quirt,  and  looked  back.  The  pursuers  were  act- 


212  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

ually  dropping  behind.  Even  to  his  inexpert 
enced  eye  their  animals  showed  signs  of  distress. 

At  this  place  the  narrow  gulch  divided.  Sev- 
erne  turned  to  the  left,  as  being  more  nearly  level. 
Down  from  the  right-hand  bisection  came  the 
boys  of  the  Triangle  X  outfit. 

To  the  boys  of  the  Triangle  X  outfit  but  one 
course  was  open.  Here  were  Colorado  Jim  and 
the  pards  on  foundered  horses,  pursuing  a  rapid 
individual  who  was  escaping  only  too  easily. 
Never  desert  a  comrade.  The  Triangle  X  boys 
uttered  whoops,  and  joined  the  game  at  speed. 
Not  gaining  as  rapidly  as  they  wished,  they  pro 
duced  long  revolvers — and  began  to  shoot.  It  is 
a  little  difficult  to  hit  anything  from  a  running 
horse.  Severne  heard  the  reports,  and  congratu 
lated  himself  on  the  realistic  qualities  of  his  little 
drama.  Then  suddenly  his  hat  went  spinning 
from  his  head.  At  the  same  instant  a  bullet 
ploughed  through  the  leather  on  his  pommel. 
Zip!  zip!  went  other  bullets  past  his  ears.  The 
boys  of  Triangle  X  outfit  were  beginning  to  get 
the  range. 

He  looked  back.  To  his  horror  he  discovered 
that  Colorado  Jim  and  the  pards  had  disap 
peared,  and  that  their  places  had  been  taken  by; 
a  number  of  maniacs  on  jumping  little  ponies. 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  213 

The  maniacs  were  yelling  "Yip !  Yip !  Yip !"  and 
shooting  at  him.  He  could  not  understand  it  in 
the  least ;  but  the  bullets  were  mighty  convincing. 
He  used  his  quirt  and  spurs. 

If  Severne  really  wished  to  experience  the  feel 
ings  of  a  man  pursued,  he  attained  his  desire.  It 
is  not  pleasant  to  be  shot  at.  Severne  entertained 
sensations  of  varied  coherence,  but  one  and  all  of 
a  vividness  which  was  of  the  greatest  literary 
value.  Only  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  appreciate 
literary  values.  He  attended  strictly  to  business, 
which  was  to  lift  the  excellent  animal  on  which 
he  was  mounted  as  rapidly  as  possible  over  the 
ground.  In  this  he  attained  a  moderate  success. 
Venturing  a  backward  glance,  after  a  few  mo 
ments,  he  noted  with  pleasure  that  the  distance 
between  himself  and  the  maniacs  had  sensibly  in 
creased.  Then  one  of  those  zipping  bullets 
passed  between  his  body  and  his  arm,  cut  off 
three  heavy  locks  of  the  horse's  mane,  and  en 
tered  the  base  of  the  poor  animal's  skull.  Sev 
erne  suddenly  found  himself  in  the  road.  The 
maniacs  swept  up  at  speed,  reining  in  suddenly 
at  the  distance  of  three  feet,  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  scatter  much  gravel  over  him.  Severne 
sat  up. 

The  maniacs,  with  commendable  promptness, 


214  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

jerked  Severne  to  his  feet.  Several  more  bent 
over  his  horse. 

"Jess's  I  thought!"  shouted  one  of  these. 
"Jess's  I  thought!  He's  stole  this  cayuse.  This 
is  Hank  Smith's  bronc.  I'd  know  him  any- 
whar!" 

"That's  right!    Bar  O  brand!"  cried  several. 

Then  men  who  held  him  yanked  Severne  here 
and  there.  "End  of  yore  rope  this  trip!  Steal 
bosses,  will  ye!"  said  they. 

"I  didn't  steal  the  horse!"  cried  poor  Severne; 
"I  hired  him  from  Smith." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  statement. 

"Hired  Colorado  and  the  boys  to  chase  you, 
too,  didn't  ye!"  suggested  one,  with  heavy  sar 
casm. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  answered  Severne,  sincerely. 

They  laughed  again.    "Nerve!"  said  they. 

Near  the  fallen  horse  several  began  discussing 
the  affair.  "I  tell  you  I  know  I  done  it!"  argued 
one.  "I  ketched  him  between  the  sights,  jest's 
fair  as  could  be." 

"G'wan,  he  flummuxed  jest's  7  cut  loose!" 

"Well,  boys,"  called  the  leader,  impatiently, 
"get  along!" 

A  man  came  forward,  and  silently  threw  a  loop 
about  Severne's  neck.  In  Wyoming  they  hang 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  215 

horse-thieves.  Severne  realised  this,  and  told 
them  all  about  everything.  They  listened  to  him, 
and  laughed  delightedly.  Never  had  they  hanged 
such  a  funny  horse-thief.  They  appreciated  his 
efforts  to  amuse  them,  and  assured  him  often 
that  he  was  a  peach.  When  he  paused,  they  en 
couraged  him  to  say  some  more.  At  every  new 
disclosure  they  chuckled  with  admiration,  as 
though  at  a  tremendous  but  splendid  lie.  Sev 
erne  was  getting  more  realistic  experience  in  ten 
minutes  than  he  had  had  in  all  his  previous  life; 
but  realistic  experience  does  not  do  one  much 
good  at  the  end  of  a  rope  on  top  of  a  Wyoming 
mountain.  Then,  after  a  little,  they  deftly 
threw  the  coil  of  rope  over  the  limb  of  a  tree,  and 
hung  him  up,  and  left  him.  They  did  not  shoot 
him  full  of  holes,  as  is  the  usual  custom.  He 
had  been  a  funny  horse-thief,  so  in  return  they 
were  lenient.  Severne  kicked.  "Dancin'  good," 
they  observed,  as  they  turned  the  corner. 

Around  the  corner  they  met  the  frantic  James. 
They  cut  Severne  down,  and  worked  over  him 
for  some  time.  Then  they  carried  him  down  to 
Placer  Creek,  and  worked  over  him  a  lot  more. 
The  Triangle  X  boys  were  distinctly  aggrieved. 
They  had  applauded  those  splendid  lies,  and  now 
they  turned  out  not  to  be  lies  at  all,  but  merely 


216  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

an  extremely  crazy  sort  of  truth.  They  relieved 
their  feelings  by  getting  very  drunk  and  shoot 
ing  out  the  lights. 

It  took  Severne  a  week  to  get  over  it.  Ten 
days  after  that  he  returned  East.  He  had  fin 
ished  a  masterpiece.  The  flight  down  the  canon 
was  pictured  so  vividly  that  you  could  almost 
hear  the  crack  of  the  pistols,  and  the  hero's  sen 
timents  were  so  well  described  that  in  reading 
about  them  you  became  excited  yourself.  Sev 
erne  read  it  three  times,  and  he  thought  it  as 
£ood  the  third  time  as  the  first.  Then  he  copied 
it  all  out  on  the  typewriter.  This  is  the  severest 
test  a  writer  can  give  his  work.  The  most  spar 
kling  tale  loses  its  freshness  when  run  through 
the  machine,  especially  if  the  unfortunate  author 
cannot  make  the  thing  go  very  fast.  It  seemed 
as  good  even  after  this  ordeal. 

"Behold,"  said  he,  congratulating  himself, 
"this  is  the  best  story  I  ever  wrote!  Blamed  if 
it  isn't  one  of  the  best  stories  I  ever  read!  Your 
romanticists  claim  that  the  realistic  story  has  no 
charm,  nor  excitement,  nor  psychical  thrill. 
This'll  show  them!" 

So  he  hurried  to  deliver  it  to  Brown.  Then  he 
posed  industriously  to  himself,  and  tried  hard  to 
do  some  more  glooming,  but  it  was  difficult 


THE   SAVING  GRACE  217 

work.  Someway  he  felt  his  cause  not  hopeless. 
This  masterpiece  would  go  far  to  convince  her 
that  he  was  right  after  all. 

Three  days  later  he  received  a  note  from 
Brown  asking  him  to  call.  He  did  so.  The  edi 
tor  handed  him  back  his  story,  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,  and  spoke  reprovingly  about  de 
serting  one's  principles.  Brown  was  conscien 
tious.  He  believed  that  the  past  counted  noth 
ing  in  face  of  the  present.  Severne  pressed  for 
an  explanation.  Then  said  Brown: 

"Severne,  I  have  used  much  of  your  stuff,  and 
I  have  liked  it.  The  sentences  have  been  crisp. 
The  adjectives  have  been  served  hot.  You  have 
eschewed  poetic  connotation.  And,  above  all, 
you  have  shown  men  and  life  as  they  are.  I  am 
sorry  to  see  that  you  have  departed  from  that 
noble  ideal." 

"But,"  cried  Severne,  in  expostulation,  "do  not 
these  qualities  appear  in  my  story?" 

"At  first  they  do,"  responded  Brown,  "but 
later — ah!"  He  sighed. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  ride  down  the  canon,"  he  explained. 
"The  sentences  are  crisp  and  the  adjectives  hot. 
But,  alas!  there  is  much  poetic  connotation,  and, 
so  far  from  representing  real  life,  it  seems  to  me 


218  STOEEES   OF  THE   WILD  LIFE 

only  the  perperoid  lucubrations  of  a  disordered 
imagination." 

"Why,  that  part  is  the  most  realistic  in  the 
whole  thing!"  cried  the  unhappy  author,  in  dis 
tress. 

"No,"  replied  the  editor,  firmly,  "it  is  not.  It 
is  not  realism  at  all.  Even  if  there  were  nothing 
objectionable  about  the  incident,  the  man's  feel 
ings  are  frightfully  overdrawn.  No  man  ever 
was  such  an  everlasting  coward  as  you  make  out 
your  hero!  I  should  be  glad  to  see  something 
else  of  yours — but  that,  no!" 

Somewhat  damped,  Severne  took  his  manu 
script  home  with  him.  There  he  re-read  it.  All 
his  old  enthusiasm  returned.  It  was  exactly 
true.  Realism  could  have  had  no  more  accurate 
exposition  of  its  principles.  He  cursed  Brown, 
and  inclosed  stamps  to  the  Decade.  After  a  time 
he  received  a  check  and  a  flattering  letter.  Real 
ism  stood  vindicated ! 

In  due  course  the  story  appeared.  During  the 
interim  Severne  had  found  that  his  glooming  was 
becoming  altogether  too  realistic  for  his  peace  of 
mind.  As  time  went  on  and  he  saw  nothing  of 
Lucy  Melville,  he  began  to  realise  that  perhaps, 
after  all,  he  was  making  a  mistake  somewhere. 
At  certain  recklessly  immoral  moments  he  even 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  219 

thought  a  very  little  of  proving  false  to  art.  To 
such  depths  can  the  human  soul  descend! 

The  evening  after  the  appearance  of  his  story 
in  the  Decade,  he  was  sitting  in  front  of  his 
open  fire  in  very  much  that  mood.  The  lamps 
had  not  been  lighted.  To  him  came  Mortimer, 
his  man.  "A  leddy  to  see  you,  sir;  no  name,"  he 
announced,  solemnly. 

Severne  arose  in  some  surprise.  "Light  the 
lamp,  and  show  her  up,"  he  commanded,  wonder 
ing  who  she  could  be. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  visitor  pushed 
into  the  room  past  Mortimer. 

"Never  mind  the  lamp,"  cried  Lucy  Melville. 
The  faithful  Mortimer  left  the  room,  and — offi 
cially — heard  no  more. 

"Why,  Lucy!"  cried  Severne. 

In  the  dim  light  he  could  see  that  her  cheeks 
were  glowing  with  excitement.  She  crossed  the 
room  swiftly,  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 
"Bob,"  she  said,  gravely,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  "I  know  I  ought  not  to  be  here,  but  I  just 
couldn't  help  it !  After  you  were  so  noble !  And 
it  won't  matter,  for  I'm  going  in  just  a  minute." 

Severne  cast  his  mind  back  in  review  of  his 
noble  acts.  "What  is  it,  Lucy?"  he  inquired. 

"As  if  you  could  ask!"  she  cried.     "I  never 


220  STORIES  OF  THE  WILD  LIFE 

knew  of  a  man's  doing  so  tactful  and  graceful 
and  beautiful  a  thing  in  my  life!  And  I  don't 
care  a  bit,  and  I  believe  you  were  right,  after  all." 

"Right  about  what?"  he  begged,  getting  more 
and  more  bewildered. 

"About  the  realism,  of  course." 

She  looked  up  at  him  again,  pointing  out  her 
chin  in  the  most  adorable  fashion.  Even  serious- 
minded  men  have  moments  of  lucidity.  Severne 
had  one  now. 

"Oh,  no,  you  mustn't,  Bob — dear!"  she  cried, 
blushing. 

"But  really,  Bob,"  she  went  on,  after  a  mo 
ment,  "even  if  realism  is  all  right,  you  must  ad 
mit  that  your  last  story  is  the  best  thing  you  ever 
wrote." 

"Why,  yes,  I  do  think  so,"  he  agreed,  wonder 
ing  what  that  had  to  do  with  it. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  do.  Do  you  know,  Bob," 
she  continued,  happily,  "I  read  it  all  through  be 
fore  I  noticed  whose  it  was.  And  I  kept  saying 
to  myself,  'I  do  wish  Bob  could  see  this  story. 
I'm  sure  it  would  convince  him  that  imagination 
is  better  than  realism' ;  for  really,  Bob,"  she  cried, 
with  enthusiasm,  "it  is  the  best  imaginative  story 
I  ever  read.  And  when  I  got  to  the  end,  and 
saw  the  signature,  and  realised  that  you  had  de- 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  221 

serted  your  literary  principles  just  for  my  sake, 
and  had  actually  gone  to  work  and  written  such 
a  splendid  imaginative  story  after  all  you  had 
said;  and  then,  too,  when  I  realised  what  a  deli 
cate  way  you  had  taken  to  let  me  know — because, 
of  course,  I  never  read  that  magazine  of  Brown's 
— oh,  Bob!"  she  concluded,  quite  out  of  breath. 

Severne  hesitated  for  almost  a  minute.  He 
saw  his  duty  plainly;  he  was  serious-minded;  he 
had  no  sense  of  humour.  Then  she  looked  up  at 
him  as  before,  pointing  her  chin  out  in  the  most 
adorable  fashion. 

"Oh,  Bob!  Again!  I  really  don't  think  you 
ought  to!" 

And  Art;  oh,  where  was  it? 


VI 

THE   PROSPECTOR 

In  the  old  mining  days  out  West  the  law  of  the 
survival  of  the  fittest  held  good,  and  he  who  sur 
vived  had  to  be  very  fit  indeed.  There  were  a 
number  of  ways  of  not  surviving.  One  of  them 
was  to  die.  And  there  were  a  number  of  ways 
of  being  very  fit ;  such  as  holding  an  accurate  gun 
or  an  even  temper,  being  blessed  with  industry 
or  a  vital-tearing  ambition,  knowing  the  game 
thoroughly  or  understanding  the  great  Ameri 
can  expedient  of  bluff.  In  any  case  the  man 
who  survived  must  see  his  end  clearly  through 
that  end's  means.  Whether  it  were  gold,  poker, 
or  life,  he  must  cling  to  his  purpose  with  a  bull 
dog  tenacity  that  no  amount  of  distraction  could 
loosen.  Otherwise,  as  has  been  said,  he  died,  or 
begged,  or  robbed,  or  became  a  tramp,  or  com 
mitted  the  suicide  of  horse-stealing,  or  just  plain 
drifted  back  East  broken — a  shameful  thing. 
Why  Peter  lived  on  was  patent  enough  to 

222 


THE   PROSPECTOR  223 

anyone.  He  was  harmless,  good-natured,  and,  in 
the  estimation  of  hard-hewn  men,  just  "queer" 
enough  to  be  a  little  pathetic.  Anyone  who 
had  once  caught  a  fair  look  at  his  narrow, 
hatchet  face  with  the  surprised  blue  eyes  and 
the  loose-falling,  sparse  light  hair;  or  had  en 
joyed  his  sweet,  rare  smile  as  he  deprecatingly 
answered  a  remark  before  effacing  himself;  or 
had  chanced  on  the  fortune  of  asking  him  for 
some  trifling  favour  to  meet  his  eager  and  pleased 
rendering  of  it:  none  of  these  hypothetical  indi 
viduals,  and  that  meant  about  everyone  who 
came  in  contact  with  Peter  at  all,  could  have  im 
agined  anybody,  let  alone  themselves,  harming  a 
hair  of  his  head.  But  how  he  continued  to  be  a 
prospector  remained  a  puzzle.  The  life  is  hard, 
full  of  privations,  sown  with  difficulties,  clamant 
for  technical  knowledge,  exacting  of  physical 
strength,  dependent  on  shrewdness  and  knowl 
edge  of  the  world.  Peter  had  none  of  these,  not 
even  in  the  smallest  degree.  There  was  also,  of 
course,  the  instinct.  This  Peter  did  possess.  He 
could  follow  his  leads  of  crumbling  brown  rock 
with  that  marvellous  intuitive  knowledge  which 
is  so  important  an  element  in  the  equipment  of 
your  true  prospector.  But  it  is  only  an  element. 
By  all  the  rules  of  the  game  Peter  should  have 


224  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

failed  long  since,  should  have  "cashed  in  and 
quit"  some  five  years  back;  and  still  he  grubbed 
away  cheerfully  at  divers  mountains  and  many 
ranges.  He  had  not  succeeded;  still,  he  had  not 
failed. 

Three  times  had  he  made  his  "strike."  On 
the  first  of  these  three  occasions  he  had  gone  in 
with  two  San  Francisco  men  to  develop  the  prop 
erty.  The  San  Francisco  men  had  persuaded 
him  to  form  a  stock  company  of  certain  capital 
isation.  In  two  deals  they  had  "frozen  out" 
Peter  completely,  and  reorganised  on  a  basis 
which  is  paying  them  good  dividends.  Return 
ing  overwhelmed  with  sophistries  and  "explana 
tions"  from  his  expostulatory  interview,  Peter 
decided  he  knew  more  about  quartz  leads  than 
about  business  and  the  disgorging  of  gains,  so 
he  went  over  into  Idaho  to  try  again.  There  he 
found  the  famous  Antelope  Gap  lode.  This  time 
he  determined  to  sell  outright  and  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  the  matter  after  the  transfer  of 
the  property.  He  drew  up  the  deeds,  received  a 
small  amount  down,  and  took  notes  for  the  bal 
ance.  When  the  notes  came  due  he  could  not  col 
lect  them.  The  mine  had  been  resold  to  third 
parties.  Peter  had  no  money  to  contest  the  af 
fair;  and  probably  would  not  have  done  so  if  he 


THE   PROSPECTOR  225 

had.  He  knew  too  little — or  too  much — of  law; 
but  the  instinct  was  his,  so  he  moved  one  State 
farther  east  to  Montana  for  his  third  trial.  This 
resulted  in  the  Eagle  Ridge.  And  for  the  third 
time  he  was  swindled  by  a  persuasive  man  and  a 
lying  one-sided  contract. 

A  sordid,  silly  enough  little  tale,  is  it  not?  but 
that  is  why  men  wondered  at  Peter's  survival, 
marvelled  at  the  recuperative  force  that  made 
possible  his  fourth  attempt,  speculated  with  a 
certain  awe  over  that  cheerful  disposition  which 
had  earned  him,  even  in  his  adversity,  the  sobri 
quet  of  Happy  Peter. 

All  of  these  phenomena,  had  they  but  known 
it,  resulted  from  one  simple  cause.  Peter's  men 
tal  retrospect  for  a  considerable  space  would 
have  conjured  up  nothing  but  a  succession  of 
grand  sweeps  of  mountains,  singing  pines,  rare 
western  skies,  and  the  simplicity  of  a  frontiers 
man's  log-cabin;  and  yet  to  his  inner  vision 
over  the  border  of  that  space  lay  a  very  different 
scene.  It  was  the  scene  he  saw  the  oftenest. 
Oftenest?  he  saw  it  always;  across  the  mountains, 
through  the  pines,  beyond  the  skies.  As  time 
went  on,  the  vision  simplified  itself  to  Peter,  as 
visions  will.  It  came  to  have  two  phases,  two 
elements,  which  visited  him  always  together. 


226  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

One  of  these  was  a  house ;  the  other  a  girl.  The 
house  was  low,  white-painted,  with  green  blinds 
and  a  broad  stoop.  Its  front  yard  was  fragrant 
with  lilacs,  noisy  with  crickets,  fluttering  with 
butterflies  of  sulphur  yellow.  About  it  lay  a 
stony,  barren  farm,  but  lovely  with  the  glamour 
of  home.  The  girl  was  not  pretty,  as  we  know 
girls;  but  she  had  straight  steady  eyes,  a  wide 
brow,  smooth  matronly  bands  of  hair,  and  a 
wholesome,  homely  New  England  character, 
sweet,  yet  with  a  tang  to  give  it  a  flavour,  like 
the  apples  on  the  tree  near  the  old-fashioned, 
long-armed  well.  Peter  could  gain  no  com 
petence  from  the  stony  farm,  no  consent  from 
the  girl.  It  was  to  win  both  that  he  had  come 
West. 

In  those  days,  around  the  western  curve  of  the 
earth,  every  outlook  borrowed  the  tints  of  sunset. 
Nothing  but  the  length  of  the  journey  stood  be~ 
tween  a  man  and  his  fortune. 

"I  love  you  dearly,  Peter,"  she  had  said,  both 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  "and  I  do  not  care  for 
the  money.  But  I  have  seen  too  much  of  it  here 
— too  much  of  the  unhappiness  that  comes  from 
debt,  from  poverty.  Misery  does  not  love  the 
company  of  those  it  loves.  Go  make  your  for 
tune,  Peter,  bravely,  and  come  back  to  me." 


THE   PROSPECTOR  227 

"I  will,"  replied  Peter,  soberly.  "I  will,  God 
help  me.  But  it  may  be  long.  I  don't  know;  I 
have  not  the  knack;  I  am  stupid  about  people, 
about  men." 

She  smiled,  and  leaned  over  to  kiss  his  eyes. 
"People  love  you,  Peter,"  she  said,  simply.  "I 
love  you,  and  I  will  wait.  If  it  were  fifty  years, 
you  will  find  me  here  ready  when  you  come." 

Peter  knew  this  to  be  true.  And  so  to  the  un 
peopled  rooms  of  the  little  old  Vermont  farm 
house  Peter's  gentle  thoughts  ever  swarmed,  like 
homing  bees.  In  his  vision  of  it  the  lilac-bush 
outside  the  window  always  smelled  of  spring ;  she 
always  sat  there  beside  the  open  sash,  waiting — 
for  him.  What  wonder  that  he  survived  when 
so  many  others  went  down?  What  wonder  that 
he  persevered?  What  wonder  that  his  patient 
soul,  comparing  the  eternity  of  love's  happiness 
with  the  paltry  years  of  love's  waiting,  saw  noth 
ing  in  the  condition  of  affairs  to  ruffle  its  peace 
ful  serenity?  And  yet  to  most  the  time  would 
have  seemed  very,  very  long.  Men  may  blunder 
against  rich  pockets  or  leads  and  wealthy  say 
farewell  to  a  day  which  they  greeted  as  the  poor 
est  of  the  poor.  So  may  men  win  fortunes  on 
a  turn  of  the  wheat  market.  But  the  one  is  no 
more  prospecting  than  the  other  is  business. 


228  STOEIES   OF  THE  WILD  LIFE 

True  prospecting  has  only  the  normal  percentage 
of  uncertainties,  the  usual  alloy  of  luck  to 
brighten  its  toil  with  the  hope  of  the  unexpected. 
A  man  must  know  his  business  to  succeed.  A  bit 
of  rock,  a  twist  of  ledge,  a  dip  of  country,  an 
abundance  or  an  absence  of  dikes — these  and 
many  others  are  the  symbols  with  which  the  pros 
pector  builds  the  formula  that  spells  gold.  And 
after  the  formula  is  made,  it  must  be  proved.  It 
is  the  proving  that  bends  the  back,  tries  the  pa 
tience,  strains  to  the  utmost  the  man's  inborn 
Instinct  of  the  Metal.  For  that  is  the  work  of 
the  steel  and  the  fire,  the  water  and  the  power  of 
explosion.  Until  the  proof  is  done  to  the  Q.E.D., 
the  man  must  draw  for  inspiration  on  his  stock 
of  faith.  In  the  morning  he  sharpens  his  drills 
at  a  forge.  In  the  afternoon  he  may,  by  the 
grace  of  labour,  his  Master,  have  accomplished  a 
little  round  hole  in  the  rock,  which,  being  filled 
with  powder  and  fired,  will  tear  loose  into  a 
larger  hole  with  debris.  The  debris  must  be  re 
moved  by  pick  and  shovel.  After  the  hole  has 
been  sufficiently  deepened,  the  debris  must  be 
loaded  into  a  bucket,  which  must  then  be  hauled 
to  the  surface  of  the  ground  and  emptied.  How 
long  do  you  calculate  the  man  will  require  to  dig 
in  this  manner,  fifty,  a  hundred  feet?  How 


THE   PROSPECTOR  229 

long  to  sink  one  or  two  such  shafts  on  each  and 
every  claim  he  has  staked  ?  How  long  to  excavate 
the  numerous  lateral  tunnels  which  the  Proof  de 
mands? 

And  besides  this,  from  time  to  time  the  shaft 
must  be  elaborately  timbered  in  order  to  prevent 
its  caving  in  and  burying  work  and  workman  to 
gether — a  tedious  job,  requiring  the  skill  alike 
of  a  woodsman,  a  carpenter,  a  sailor,  and  a  joiner. 
The  man  must  make  his  trips  to  town  for  sup 
plies.  He  must  cook  his  meals.  He  must  meet 
his  fellows  occasionally,  or  lose  the  power  of 
speech.  The  years  slip  by  rapidly.  He  numbers 
his  days  by  what  he  has  accomplished;  and  it  is 
little.  He  measures  time  by  his  trips  to  camp; 
and  they  are  few.  It  is  no  small  thing  to  make 
three  discoveries — and  lose  them.  It  is  a  greater 
thing  to  find  courage  for  a  fourth  attempt. 

After  the  Eagle  Ridge  fiasco,  Peter,  as  cheer 
ful  as  ever,  journeyed  over  into  Wyoming  to  try 
his  luck  once  more.  He  moved  up  into  the  hills, 
spent  a  month  in  looking  about  him,  narrowed 
his  localities  to  one  gulch,  and  built  himself  a  log 
cabin  in  which  to  live.  Then  he  made  his  general 
survey.  He  went  on  foot  up  every  gulch,  even 
every  little  transverse  wrinkle  that  lay  tributary 
to  his  valley,  to  the  shallow  top  of  it  filled  with 


230  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

loose  stones;  he  followed  the  sky-line  of  every 
ridge  which  bordered  and  limited  these  gulches; 
he  seized  frequent  opportunities  of  making  long 
diagonals  down  the  slopes.  Nothing  escaped 
him.  In  time  he  knew  the  general  appearance 
of  every  bit  of  drift  or  outcrop  in  his  district. 
Then  he  sat  down  in  his  cabin  and  carefully  con 
sidered  the  probabilities.  If  they  had  not  hap 
pened  to  please  him,  he  would  have  repeated  the 
whole  wearisome  process  in  another  valley;  but 
as  in  this  case  they  did,  he  proceeded  to  take  the 
next  step.  In  other  words,  he  went  over  the  same 
ground  again  with  a  sampling-pick  and  a  bundle 
of  canvas  bags.  Where  his  theories  or  experi 
ence  advised,  he  broke  off  quantities  of  rock  from 
the  ledges,  which  he  crushed  and  mixed  in  the 
half  of  an  old  blanket;  dividing,  and  recrushing 
again  and  again,  until  an  "average"  was  obtained 
in  small  compass.  The  "average"  he  took  home, 
where  he  dumped  it  into  a  heavy  iron  mortar, 
over  which  he  had  suspended  a  pestle  from  a 
springy  sapling.  By  alternately  pulling  down 
and  letting  up  on  the  sapling  he  crushed  the 
quartz  fragments  with  the  pestle  into  fine  red 
and  white  sand.  The  sand  he  "panned  out"  for 
indications  of  free  gold. 

The  ledges  whose  averages  thus  showed  the 


THE   PROSPECTOR  231 

colour,  he  marked  on  his  map  with  a  cross.  Some 
leads  which  did  not  so  exhibit  gold,  but  whose 
other  indications  he  considered  promising,  he  ex 
ploited  still  further,  penetrating  to  a  layer  below 
the  surface  by  means  of  a  charge  or  so  of  pow 
der.  Or  perhaps  he  even  spent  several  weeks  in 
making  an  irregular  hole  like  a  well,  from  which 
he  carried  the  broken  rock  in  bags,  climbing  up  a 
notched  tree.  Then  he  selected  more  samples. 
This  is  hard  work. 

Thus  Peter  came  to  know  his  country,  and 
when  he  knew  it  thoroughly,  when  he  had  made 
all  his  numerous  speculations  as  to  horses,  blow 
outs,  and  slips — then,  and  not  until  then,  did  he 
stake  out  his  claims ;  then,  and  not  until  then,  did 
he  consider  himself  ready  to  begin  work. 

He  might  be  quite  wrong  in  his  calculations. 
In  that  case,  it  was  all  to  do  over  again  some 
where  else.  He  had  had  this  happen.  Every 
prospector  has.  The  claims  which  Peter  selected 
were  four  in  number.  He  started  in  without  de 
lay  on  the  proof.  Foot  by  foot  the  shafts  de 
scended  through  the  red,  the  white,  vein  matter. 
One  by  one  the  spider  arms  of  the  tunnels  felt 
out  into  the  innermost  crevices  of  the  lode.  Lit 
tle  by  little  Peter's  table  of  statistics  filled;  here 
a  pocket,  there  a  streak,  yon  a  clear  ten  feet  of 


282  STORIES  OF  THE  WILD  LIFE 

low-grade  ore.  The  days,  the  months,  even  the 
years  slipped  by.  Summers  came  and  went  with 
a  flurry  of  thunder-showers  tl^at  gathered  about 
Harney,  spread  abroad  in  Jong  bands  of  black 
ness,  broke  in  a  deluge  of  rain  and  hail  and 
passed  out  to  dissipate  in  the  hot  air  of  the  prai 
ries.  Autumns,  clear-eyed  and  sweet-breathed, 
faded  wanly  in  the  smoke  of  their  forest  fires. 
Winters  sidled  by  with  constant  threat  of  arctic 
weather  which  somehow  never  came;  powdering 
the  hills  with  their  snow;  making  bitter  cold  the 
shadows,  and  warm  the  silver-like  sun.  Another 
spring  was  at  hand.  Like  all  the  rest,  it  coquet 
ted  with  the  season  as  a  young  girl  with  her  lover; 
smiling  with  the  brightness  of  a  western  sun; 
frowning  with  the  fierceness  of  a  sudden  snow- 
squall,  strangely  out  of  place  in  contrast  to  the 
greenery  of  the  mountain  "parks";  creeping 
slowly  up  the  gullies  from  the  prairie  in  staccato 
notes  of  bursting  buds;  at  last  lifting  its  many 
voices  in  the  old  swelling  song  of  delight  over 
the  birth  of  new  loves  and  new  desires  among  its 
creatures. 

Like  all  the  rest,  did  I  say?  No,  not  quite. 
To  Peter  this  particular  spring  was  a  rare  thing 
of  beauty.  Its  gilding  was  a  little  brighter,  its 
colours  a  little  fresher,  its  skies  a  little  deeper, 


THE  PROSPECTOR  288 

its  songs  rang  a  little  truer  than  ever  the  gild 
ing  or  colours  or  skies  or  songs  of  any  spring  he 
had  ever  known.  For  he  was  satisfied.  Steadily 
the  value  of  the  property  had  proved  itself.  One 
clear,  cold  day  he  collected  all  his  drills  and  picks 
and  sledges  and  brought  them  back  to  camp, 
where  he  stacked  them  behind  the  door.  It  was 
his  way  of  signing  Q.E.D.  to  the  proof. 

The  doubtful  spot  on  the  Jim  Crow  was  not 
a  blow-out,  but  a  "horse."  He  had  penetrated 
below  it.  The  mines  were  rich  beyond  his 
dreams.  Yet  he  sat  there  at  his  noon  meal  as 
cheerful,  as  unexcited,  as  content  as  ever.  When 
one  has  waited  so  long,  impatience  sleeps  sound 
ly,  arouses  with  the  sluggishness  of  unbelief 
itself.  Outside  he  saw  the  sun,  for  the  first  time 
in  weeks,  and  heard  the  pines  singing  their  end 
less  song,  inside,  his  fire  sparkled  and  crackled; 
his  kettle  purred  like  a  fireside  cat.  Peter  was 
tired;  tired,  but  content.  The  dream  was  very 
near  to  him. 

When  he  had  finished  his  meal  he  got  up  and 
examined  himself  in  his  little  square  mirror. 
Then  he  did  so  again.  Then  he  walked  heavily 
back  to  his  table  and  sat  down  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands.  When  he  had  looked  the  first  time 
he  had  seen  a  gray  hair.  When  he  had  looked 


234  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

the  second  time  he  had  discovered  that  there  were 
many.  With  a  sudden  pang  Peter  realised  that 
he  was  getting  to  be  an  old  man.  He  took  a  pic 
ture  from  a  pocket-case  and  looked  at  that.  Was 
she  getting  to  be  an  old  woman? 

It  was  fearful  what  a  difference  that  little 
thought  suddenly  made.  A  moment  ago  he  had 
had  the  eternities  before  him.  Now  there  was 
not  an  instant  to  be  wasted.  Every  minute, 
every  second  even,  that  he  sat  there  gazing  at 
the  faded  old  picture  in  his  hand  was  so  much 
lost  to  him  and  to  its  original.  Not  God  him 
self  could  bring  it  and  its  possibilities  back  to 
him.  Until  now  he  had  looked  about  him  upon 
Youth ;  he  must  henceforth  look  back  to  it — back 
to  the  things  which  might  have  been,  but  could 
never  be — and  each  pulse-beat  carried  him  in 
evitably  farther  from  even  the  retrospective  sim 
ulacrum  of  their  joys.  He  and  she  could  never 
begin  young  now.  They  must  take  up  life  cold 
in  the  moulds,  ready  fashioned.  The  delight  of 
influencing  each  other's  development  was  denied 
such  as  they;  instead,  they  must  find  each  other 
out,  must  throw  a  thousand  strands  of  loving- 
kindness  to  span  the  gap  which  the  patient  years 
had  sundered  between  them,  a  gap  which  should 
never  have  widened  at  all.  Again  that  remorse- 


THE   PROSPECTOR  235 

less  hurry  of  the  moments!  Each  one  of  them 
made  the  cast  across  longer,  increased  the  need 
for  loving-kindness,  demanded  anew,  for  the 
mere  pitiful  commonplace  task  of  understanding 
each  other — which  any  mother  and  her  child  find 
so  trivially  easy — the  power  of  affection  which 
each  would  have  liked  to  shower  on  the  other  un- 
dictated  except  by  the  desires  of  their  hearts. 
Peter  called  up  the  image  of  himself  as  he  had 
been  when  he  had  left  the  East,  and  set  it  remorse 
lessly  by  the  side  of  that  present  image  in  the 
mirror.  Then  he  looked  at  the  portrait.  Could 
the  years  have  changed  her  as  much?  If  so,  he 
would  hardly  know  her! 

Those  miserable  years  of  waiting!  He  had 
not  minded  them  before,  but  now  they  were  hor 
rible.  In  the  retrospect  the  ceaseless  drudgery 
of  rock  and  pick  and  drill  loomed  larger  than 
the  truth  of  it;  his  patience,  at  the  time  so  spon 
taneous  a  result  of  his  disposition,  seemed  that  of 
a  man  clinging  desperately  to  a  rope,  able  to 
hang  on  only  by  the  concentration  of  every  ounce 
of  his  will.  Peter  felt  himself  clutching  the  rope 
so  hard  that  he  could  think  of  nothing,  abso 
lutely  nothing,  else.  He  proved  a  great  neces 
sity  of  letting  go. 

And  for  her,  these  years?     What  had  they 


236  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

meant?  B}r  the  internal  combustion  which  had 
so  suddenly  lighted  up  the  dark  corners  of  his 
being,  he  saw  with  almost  clairvoyant  distinct 
ness  how  it  must  have  been.  He  saw  her  grow 
ing  older,  as  he  had  grown  older,  but  in  the  dull 
apathy  of  monotony.  She  had  none  of  this  great 
filling  Labour  wherewith  to  drug  herself  into 
day-dreams  of  a  future.  The  seasons  as  they 
passed  showed  her  the  same  faces,  growing  ever  a 
little  more  jaded,  as  dancers  in  the  light  of  dawn. 
Perhaps  she  had  ceased  counting  them?  No,  he 
knew  better  than  that.  But  the  pity  of  it !  wash 
ing,  scrubbing,  mending;  mending,  scrubbing, 
washing  to  the  time  of  an  invalid's  complaints. 
To-day  she  was  doing  as  she  had  done  yesterday ; 
to-morrow  she  would  do  the  same.  To-morrow? 

"No,  by  God!"  cried  Peter,  starting  to  his  feet. 
"There  shall  be  no  more  to-morrow!" 

He  took  from  the  shelf  over  the  window  a 
number  of  pieces  of  quartz,  which  he  stuffed  into 
the  pockets  of  a  pair  of  saddle-bags  lying  near 
the  door.  In  the  corral  was  Jenny,  a  sleek,  fat 
mare.  He  saddled  Jenny  and  departed  with  the 
saddle-bags,  leaving  the  door  of  his  cabin  open 
to  the  first  comer,  as  is  the  hospitable  Western 
way. 

At  Beaver  Dam  he  spread  the  chunks  of  rock 


THE   PROSPECTOR  237 

out  on  the  bar  of  the  principal  saloon  and  in 
vited  inspection.  He  did  not  think  to  find  a  pur 
chaser  among  the  inhabitants  of  Beaver  Dam,, 
but  he  knew  that  the  tidings  of  his  discoveries- 
would  arouse  interest  and  attract  other  prospec 
tors  to  the  locality  of  his  claims.  In  this  manner 
his  property  would  come  prominently  on  the 
market. 

The  discoveries  certainly  were  accorded  atten 
tion  enough.  Peter  was  well  known.  Men  were 
perfectly  sure  of  his  veracity  and  his  mining  in 
stinct.  If  Peter  said  there  existed  a  good  lode  of 
the  stuff  he  exhibited  to  them,  that  settled  it. 

"Hum,"  said  a  man  named  Squint-eye  Dobs* 
after  examining  a  bit  of  the  transparent  crystal 
through  which  small  kernels  of  yellow  metal 
shone.  Then  he  laid  down  the  specimen,  and 
walked  quietly  out  the  door  without  further  com 
ment.  He  had  gone  to  get  his  outfit  ready. 

To  others,  not  so  prompt  of  action,  Peter  ex 
plained  at  length,  always  in  that  hesitating,  diffi 
dent  voice  of  his. 

"I  have  my  claims  all  staked,"  said  he;  "y°u 
boys  can  come  up  and  hook  onto  what's  left. 
There's  plenty  left.  I  ain't  saying  it's  as  good 
as  mine ;  still,  it's  pretty  good.  I  think  it'll  make 
a  camp." 


238  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

"Make  a  camp!"  shouted  Cheyenne  Harry. 
"I  should  think  it  would!  If  there's  any  more 
like  that  up  country  you  can  sell  a  'tater-patch  if 
it  lays  anywheres  near  the  district!" 

"Well,  I  must  be  goin',  boys,"  said  Peter, 
sidling  toward  the  door;  "and  I  'spect  I'll  see 
some  of  you  boys  up  there?" 

The  boys  did  not  care  to  commit  themselves  as 
to  that  before  each  other,  but  they  were  all  men 
tally  locating  the  ingredients  of  their  prospect 
ing  outfits. 

"Have  a  drink,  Happy,  on  me,"  hospitably 
suggested  the  proprietor. 

Peter  slowly  returned  to  the  bar. 

"Here's  luck  to  the  new  claim,  Happy,"  said 
the  proprietor;  "and  here's  hoping  the  sharps 
doesn't  make  all  there  is  on  her." 

The  men  laughed,  but  not  ill-naturedly.  They 
all  knew  Peter,  as  has  been  said. 

Peter  turned  again  to  the  door. 

"You'll  have  a  reg'lar  cyclone  up  thar  by  to 
morrow!"  called  a  joker  after  him;  "look  out  fer 
us!  There'll  be  an  unholy  mob  on  hand,  and 
they'll  try  to  do  you,  sure!" 

Peter  stopped  short,  looked  at  the  speaker,  and 
went  out  hurriedly. 

The  next  morning  the  men   came   into   his 


THE   PROSPECTOR  239 

gulch.  He  heard  them  even  before  he  had  left 
his  bunk  —  the  clink,  creak,  creak!  of  their 
wagons.  By  the  time  he  had  finished  breakfast 
the  side-hills  were  covered  with  them.  From  his 
window  he  could  catch  glimpses  of  them  through 
the  straight  pines  as  patches  of  red,  or  flashes  of 
light  reflected  from  polished  metal.  In  the 
canon  was  the  gleam  of  fires ;  in  the  air  the  smell 
of  wood-smoke  and  of  bacon  broiling ;  among  the 
still  bare  bushes  and  saplings  the  shine  of  white 
lean-tops;  horses  fed  eagerly  on  the  young 
grasses  and  the  browse  of  trees,  raising  their 
heads  as  the  creak  of  wheels  farther  down  the 
draw  told  of  yet  new-comers.  The  boom  was 
under  way. 

Peter  knew  that  the  tidings  of  the  discovery 
would  spread.  To-morrow  a  new  town  would 
deserve  a  place  on  the  map.  Men  would  come 
to  the  town,  men  with  money,  men  anxious  to  in 
vest.  With  them  Peter  would  treat.  There  was 
to  be  no  chance  of  a  careless  bargain  this  time. 
He  would  take  no  chancet.  And  yet  he  had 
thought  that  before. 

Peter  began  to  forestall  difficulties  in  his  mind. 
The  former  experience  suggested  many,  but  he 
drew  from  the  same  source  their  remedies.  It 
was  the  great  unknown  that  terrified  him.  In. 


240  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

spite  of  his  years,  in  spite  of  his  gray  hairs,  in 
spite  of  his  memories  of  those  former  failures, 
he  had  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  knew  noth 
ing,  absolutely  nothing  of  sharpers  and  their 
methods.  They  could  not  fleece  him  again  in 
precisely  the  way  they  had  done  so  before;  but 
how  could  he  guess  at  the  tricks  they  had  in  re 
serve?  Eight  years  out  of  a  man's  life  ought 
surely  to  teach  him  caution  as  thoroughly  as 
twelve.  Yet  he  walked  into  the  Eagle  Ridge 
trap  as  confidently  as  he  had  into  the  Antelope 
Gap.  He  had  made  it  twelve  years.  What  was 
to  prevent  his  making  it  sixteen?  There  is  no 
fear  like  that  of  the  absolutely  unknown.  You 
cannot  forestall  that;  you  must  depend  upon 
your  own  self-confidence.  Self-confidence  was 
just  what  Peter  did  not  possess. 

Then  in  a  flash  he  saw  what  he  should  have 
done.  It  was  all  so  ridiculously  simple — a  mere 
question  of  division  of  labour.  He,  Peter,  knew 
prospecting,  but  did  not  understand  business. 
Back  in  his  old  Vermont  home  were  a  dozen  hon 
est  men  who  knew  business,  but  understood  noth 
ing  of  prospecting.  Nothing  would  have  been 
easier  than  to  have  combined  these  qualities  and 
lacks.  If  Peter  had  returned  quietly  to  his  peo 
ple,  concealing  his  discoveries  from  the  men  of 


THE   PROSPECTOR  241 

Beaver  Dam,  he  could  have  returned  in  three 
weeks'  time  equipped  for  his  negotiations.  Now 
it  was  too  late.  The  minute  his  back  was  turned 
they  would  jump  his  claims.  Peter's  mind 
worked  slowly.  If  he  had  felt  himself  less  driven, 
by  the  sight  of  those  gray  hairs,  he  might  have 
come  in  time  to  another  idea — that  of  wiring  or 
writing  East  for  a  partner,  pending  whose  arrival 
he  could  merely  hold  possession  of  the  claims.  As 
it  was,  the  terror  and  misgiving,  having  obtained 
entry,  rapidly  usurped  the  dominion  of  his 
thoughts.  He  could  see  nothing  before  him  but 
the  inevitable  and  dread  bargaining  with  un 
known  powers  of  dishonesty,  nothing  behind  him 
but  the  mistake  of  starting  the  "boom." 

As  the  morning  wore  away  he  went  out  into- 
the  hills  to  look  about  him.  The  men  were  all 
busily  enough  engaged  in  chipping  out  the  shal 
low  troughs  of  their  "discoveries,"  piling  sup 
porting  rocks  about  their  corner  and  side  stakes,, 
or  tacking  up  laboriously  composed  mining  "no 
tices."  They  paid  scant  attention  to  the  man 
who  passed  them  a  hundred  yards  away.  Peter 
visited  his  own  four  claims.  On  one  he  found  a 
small  group  anxiously  examining  the  indications 
of  the  lead.  He  did  not  join  it.  The  part 
ing  words  flung  after  him  at  the  saloon  came  to 


1242  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

his  mind.  ''Look  out  for  us!  There'll  be  an 
unholy  mob  on  hand,  and  they'll  try  to  do  you, 
sure." 

Peter  cooked  himself  a  noon  meal,  but  he  did 
not  eat  much  of  it.  Instead,  he  sat  quite  still  and 
stared  with  wide,  blind  eyes  at  the  wavering 
mists  of  steam  that  arose  from  the  various  hot 
dishes.  From  time  to  time  he  got  up  with  ap 
parent  purpose,  which,  however,  left  him  before 
he  had  taken  two  steps,  so  that  his  movement 
speedily  became  aimless,  and  he  sat  down  again. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  he  went  the  rounds  of  his 
claims  again,  but  saw  nothing  unusual.  He  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  cook  supper.  During  the 
evening  some  men  looked  in  for  a  moment  or  so, 
but  went  away,  because  the  cabin  was  empty. 
Peter  was  at  the  moment  of  their  visit  walking 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  away  up  high 
there  on  the  top  of  the  ridge,  in  a  little  cleared 
flat  space  next  the  stars.  When  he  came  to  the 
end,  he  whirled  sharp  on  his  heels.  It  was  six 
paces  one  way  and  five  the  other.  He  counted 
the  steps  consciously,  until  the  mental  process  be 
came  mechanical.  Then  the  count  went  on  stead 
ily  behind  his  other  thoughts — five,  six ;  five,  six ; 
five,  six;  over  and  over  again,  like  that.  About 
ten  o'clock  he  ceased  opening  and  shutting  his 


THE   PROSPECTOE  243 

hands  and  began  to  scream,  at  first  under  his 
breath,  then  louder  in  the  over  tone,  then  with 
the  full  strength  of  his  lungs.  A  mountain  lion 
on  another  slope  answered  him.  He  stretched 
his  arms  up  over  his  head,  every  muscle  tense, 
and  screamed.  And  then,  without  appreciable 
transition,  he  sank  to  the  rock  and  hid  his 
face.  For  the  moment  the  nerve  tension  had 
relaxed. 

The  clear  western  stars,  like  fine  silver  pow 
der,  seemed  to  glimmer  in  some  light  stronger 
than  their  own,  as  dust-motes  in  the  sun.  A 
breeze  from  the  prairie  rested  its  light,  invisible 
hands  on  the  man's  bent  head.  Certain  homely 
night-sounds,  such  as  the  tree-toads  and  crickets 
and  the  cries  of  the  poor  wills,  stole  here  and 
there  through  the  pine-aisles  like  living  creatures 
on  the  wing.  A  faint,  sweet  odour  of  the  woods 
came  with  them.  Peter  arose,  and  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  went  to  his  cabin.  The  peace  of 
nature  had  for  the  moment  become  his  own. 

But  then,  in  the  darkness  of  his  low  bunk,  the 
old  doubts,  the  old  terrors  returned.  They 
perched  there  above  him  and  compelled  him  to 
look  at  them  until  his  eyes  were  hot  and  red. 
"Do,  do,  do!"  said  they,  until  Peter  arose,  and 
there,  in  the  chill  of  dawn,  he  walked  the  three 


244  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD  LIFE 

miles  necessary  for  the  inspection  of  his  claims. 
Everything  was  as  it  should  be.  The  men  in 
the  gulch  were  not  yet  awake.  From  the  Jim 
Crow  a  drowsy  porcupine  trundled  away  bris 
tling. 

This  could  not  go  on.  It  would  be  weeks  be 
fore  he  could  hope  even  to  open  his  negotiations. 
Peter  cooked  himself  an  elaborate  breakfast — 
and  drank  half  a  cup  of  coffee.  Then  he  sat,  as 
he  had  the  day  before,  staring  straight  in  front 
of  him,  seeing  nothing.  After  a  time  he  placed 
the  girl's  picture  and  the  square  mirror  side  by 
side  on  the  table  and  looked  at  them  intently. 

He  rose,  kicking  his  chair  over  backward,  and 
went  out  to  his  claims  once  more. 

The  men  in  the  gulch  had  awakened.  Most 
of  them  had  finished  the  more  imperative  de 
mands  of  location  the  day  before,  so  now  they 
were  more  at  leisure  to  satisfy  their  curiosity  and 
their  love  of  comment  by  inspecting  the  original 
discovery  to  which  all  this  stampede  was  due.  As 
a  consequence  Peter  found  a  great  gathering  on 
the  Jim  Crow.  Some  of  the  men  were  examin 
ing  chunks  of  ore,  others  were  preparing  to  de 
scend  the  shafts,  still  others  were  engaged  idly 
in  reading  the  location-notice  tacked  against  a 
stub  pine.  One  of  the  latter,  the  same  individual 


THE   PBOSPECTOR  245 

who  had  joked  Peter  in  the  saloon,  caught  sight 
of  the  prospector  as  he  approached. 

"Hullo,  Happy!"  he  called,  pointing  at  the 
weather-beaten  notice.  "What  do  you  call  this?" 
He  winked  at  the  rest.  The  history  of  Peter's 
losses  was  well  known. 

"What?"  asked  Peter,  strangely. 

"You  ain't  got  this  readin'  right.  She  says 
'fifteen  hundred  feet';  the  law  says  she  ought  t' 
read  'fifteen  hundred  linear  feet.'  Your  claim  is 
n.g.  I'm  goin'  t'  jump  her  on  you." 

The  statement  was  ridiculous;  everybody 
knew  it,  and  prepared  to  laugh,  loud-mouthed. 

Peter,  without  a  word,  shot  the  speaker 
through  the  heart.  Men  said  at  his  trial  that  it 
was  the  most  brutal  and  unprovoked  murder 
they  had  ever  known. 


VII 

THE   GIRL   IN   RED 

"It  isn't  that  I  object  to,"  protested  the  East 
erner,  leaning  forward  from  the  rough  log  wall 
to  give  emphasis  to  his  words,  "for  I  believe  in 
everyone  having  his  fun  his  own  way.  If  you're 
going  in  for  orgies,  why,  have  'em  good  orgies, 
and  be  done  with  it.  But  my  kick's  on  letting 
these  innocent  young  girls  who  are  just  out  for 
the  fun — it's  awful!" 

"It's  hell!"  assented  the  Westerner,  cheerfully. 

"Now,  look  at  that  pretty  creature  over 
there " 

The  young  miner  followed  his  companion's 
gaze  through  the  garishly  lit  crowd.  Then,  as 
though  in  doubt  as  to  whether  he  had  seen  cor 
rectly,  he  tried  it  again. 

"Which  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

"The  one  in  red.    Now,  she " 

The  Westerner  snorted  irrepressibly. 

246 


THE   GIRL   IN   RED  247 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  inquired  the 
Easterner,  looking  on  him  with  suspicious  eyes. 

The  other  choked  his  laugh  in  the  middle, 
and  instantly  assumed  an  expression  of  intense 
solemnity.  It  was  as  though  a  candle  had  blown 
out  in  the  wind. 

"Beg  pardon.  Nothing,"  he  asserted  with 
brevity  of  enunciation.  "Go  on." 

The  girl  in  red  was  standing  tiptoe  on  a  bench 
under  one  of  the  big  lanterns.  She  was  holding 
her  little  palm  slantwise  over  the  chimney,  and 
by  blowing  against  it  was  trying  to  put  out  the 
lamp.  Her  face  was  very  serious  and  flushed. 
Occasionally  the  lamp  would  flare  up  a  little, 
and  she  would  snatch  her  hand  away  with  a 
pretty  gesture  of  dismay  as  the  uprising  flame 
would  threaten  to  scorch  it.  A  group  of  inter 
ested  men  surrounded  and  applauded  her.  Two 
on  the  outside  stood  off  the  proprietor  of  the 
dance-hall.  The  proprietor  was  objecting. 

"Well,  then,  just  look  at  that  girl,  I  say,"  the 
Easterner  went  on.  "She's  as  pretty  and  fresh 
and  innocent  as  a  mountain  flower.  She's  hav 
ing  the  time  of  her  young  life,  and  she  just 
thinks  it  means  a  good  time  and  nothing  else. 
Some  day  she'll  find  out  it  means  a  lot  else.  I 
tell  you,  it's  awful!" 


248  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD  LIFE 

The  Westerner  surveyed  his  friend's  flushed 
face  with  silent  amusement.  The  girl  finally 
succeeded  in  blowing  the  light  out,  and  every 
body  yelled. 

"Same  old  fellow  you  were  in  college,  aren't 
you,  Bert?"  he  said,  affectionately;  "succouring 
the  distressed  and  borrowing  other  people's  trou 
bles.  What  can  you  do?" 

"Do,  do!  What  can  any  man  do?  Take  her 
out  of  this!  appeal  to  her  better  nature!" 

Bert  started  impulsively  forward  to  where  the 
girl — with  assistance — was  preparing  to  jump 
from  the  bench.  The  miner  caught  his  sleeve  in 
alarm. 

"Hold  on,  don't  make  a  row!  Wait  a  min 
ute!"  he  begged;  "she  isn't  worth  it!  There,  now 
listen,"  as  the  other  sank  back  expectantly  to  his 
former  position.  His  bantering  manner  re 
turned.  "You  and  the  windmills,"  he  breathed, 
in  relief.  "I'll  just  shatter  your  ideals  a  few  to 
pay  for  that  scare.  You  shall  now  hear  a  fact 
or  so  concerning  that  pretty,  innocent  girl — I 
forget  your  other  adjective.  In  the  first  place, 
she  isn't  in  the  mountain-flower  business  a  little 
bit.  Her  name  is  Anne  Bingham,  but  she  is 
more  popularly  known  as  Bismarck  Anne, 
chiefly  because  of  all  the  camps  of  our  beloved 


THE   GIRL   IN   RED  249 

territory  Bismarck  is  the  only  one  she  hasn't  vis 
ited.  Therefore,  it  is  concluded  she  must  have 
come  from  there." 

"Bismarck  Anne!"  repeated  the  Easterner, 
wonderingly.  "She  isn't  the  one " 

"The  very  same.  She's  about  as  bad  as  they 
make  'em,  and  I  don't  believe  she  misses  a  pay 
day  dance  a  year.  She's  all  right,  now;  but  you 
want  to  come  back  a  little  later.  Anne  will  be 
drunk — gloriously  drunk — and  very  joyful.  I 
will  say  that  for  her.  She  has  all  the  fun  there 
is  in  it  while  it  lasts." 

"Whew!"  whistled  the  Easterner,  in  dazed  re 
pulsion,  looking  with  interest  on  the  girl's  ani 
mated  face. 

"Oh,  what  do  you  care!"  responded  the  miner, 
carelessly.  "She  has  her  fun." 

Bismarck  Anne  jumped  into  the  nearest  man's 
arms,  was  kissed,  bestowed  a  slap,  and  flitted 
away  down  the  room.  She  deftly  stole  the  ac 
cordion  from  beneath  the  tall  look-out  stool  on 
which  a  musician  sat  and  ran,  evolving  strange 
noises  from  the  instrument,  and  scampering  in 
and  out  among  the  benches,  pursued  by  its 
owner.  The  men  all  laughed  heartily,  and  tried 
to  trip  up  the  pursuer.  The  women  laughed  hol 
low  laughs,  to  show  they  were  not  jealous  of  the 


250  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

sensation  she  was  creating.  Finally  she  ran  into 
the  proprietor,  just  turning  from  relighting  the 
big  lamp.  The  proprietor,  being  angry,  rescued 
the  accordion  roughly;  whereupon  Anne  pouted 
and  cast  appealing  glances  on  her  friends.  The 
friends  responded  to  a  man.  The  proprietor  set 
up  the  drinks. 

The  music  started  up  again.  Miners  darted 
here  and  there  toward  the  gaudily  dressed 
women,  and,  seizing  them  about  the  waist,  held 
them  close  to  their  sides,  as  a  claim  of  proprietor 
ship  before  the  whole  world.  Perspiring  masters 
of  ceremonies,  self -constituted  and  drunk,  rushed 
back  and  forth,  trying  to  put  a  semblance  of  the 
quadrilateral  into  the  various  sets.  Everybody 
shuffled  feet  impatiently. 

The  dance  began  with  a  swirl  of  noise  and 
hilarious  confusion.  Bismarck  Anne  added  to 
the  hilarity.  She  was  having  a  high  old  time; 
why  shouldn't  she?  She  had  had  three  glasses  of 
forty-rod,  and  was  blessed  by  nature  with  a 
lively  disposition  and  an  insignificant  bump  of 
reverence.  Moreover,  she  was  healthy  of  body, 
red  of  blood,  and  reckless  of  consequences. 
Pleasure  appealed  to  her;  the  stir  of  action,  the 
delight  of  the  flow  of  high  spirits,  thrilled 
through  every  fibre  of  her  being.  She  had  no  be- 


THE   GIRL   IN   RED  251 

liefs,  as  far  as  she  knew.  If  she  could  have  told 
of  them,  they  would  have  proved  simple  in  the 
extreme — that  life  comes  to  those  who  live  out 
their  possibilities,  and  not  to  those  who  deny 
them.  And  Anne  had  many  possibilities,  and 
was  living  them  fast.  She  felt  almost  physically 
the  beat  of  pleasure  in  the  atmosphere  about  her, 
and  from  it  she  reacted  to  a  still  higher  pitch. 
She  had  drunk  three  glasses,  and  her  head  was 
not  strong.  Her  feet  moved  easily,  and  she  was 
very  certain  of  her  movements.  She  had  become 
just  hazy  enough  in  her  mental  processes  to  have 
attained  that  happy  indifference  to  what  is  likely 
to  happen  in  the  immediate  future,  and  that 
equally  happy  disregard  of  consequences  which 
the  virtuous  never  experience.  Impressions  re 
duced  themselves  to  their  lowest  terms — move 
ment  and  noise.  The  room  was  full  of  rapidly 
revolving  figures.  The  racket  was  incessant,  and 
women's  laughter  rose  shrill  above  it,  like  wind 
above  a  storm.  Anne  moved  amid  it  all  as  the 
controller  of  its  destinies,  and  wherever  she  went 
seemed  to  her  to  be  the  one  stable  point  in  the 
kaleidoscopic  changes.  Men  danced  with  her, 
but  they  were  meaningless  men.  One  begged 
her  to  dance  with  him,  but  Anne  stopped  to 
watch  a  youth  blowing  brutishly  from  puffed 


252  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

cheeks,  so  the  man  cursed  and  left  her  for  an 
other  girl.  Beyond  the  puffing  youth  lights  were 
dancing,  green  and  red.  Anne  paused  and 
looked  at  them  gravely. 

The  people,  the  room,  the  sounds  seemed  to  her 
to  come  and  go  in  great  bursts.  Between  these 
bursts  Anne  knew  nothing  except  that  she  was 
happy;  above  all  else  she  was  happy.  As  inci 
dents  men  kissed  her  and  she  drank;  but  these 
things  were  not  essentially  different  from  the 
lights  and  the  bursts  of  consciousness.  Anne 
began  to  take  everything  for  granted. 

After  a  time  Anne  paused  again  to  look 
gravely  at  strange  lights.  But  this  time  they 
seemed  not  to  be  red  or  green,  but  to  be  of 
orange,  in  long,  fiery  flashes,  like  ribbons  thrown 
suddenly  out  and  as  suddenly  withdrawn.  The 
noise  stopped,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  buzzing. 
For  a  moment  the  girl's  blurred  vision  saw 
clearly  the  room,  all  still,  except  for  a  man  hud 
dled  in  one  corner,  and  on  the  floor  a  slowly  gath 
ering  pool  of  red.  Someone  thrust  her  out  of  the 
door  with  others,  and  she  began  to  step  aimlessly, 
uncertainly,  along  the  broad  street. 

She  felt  dimly  the  difference  between  the  hot 
air  of  the  dance-hall  and  the  warm  air  out  of 
doors.  The  great  hills  and  the  stars  and  the 


THE   GIBJL  IN   RED  253 

silhouetted  houses  came  and  went  in  visions,  just 
as  had  the  people  and  the  noise  inside  the  hall. 
The  idea  of  walking  came  to  her,  and  occupied 
her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else,  and 
she  set  about  it  with  great  intentness.  How  far 
she  went  and  in  what  direction  did  not  seem  to 
matter.  When  she  moved  she  was  happy;  when 
she  stopped  she  was  miserable.  So  she  wandered 
on  in  the  way  she  knew,  and  yet  did  not  know, 
out  of  the  broad  streets  of  the  town,  through  a 
wide  cleft  in  the  hills,  up  a  long  grassy  valley 
that  wound  slowly  and  mounted  gradually,  fol 
lowing  the  brawl  of  the  stream,  until  at  last  she 
found  herself  in  a  little  fern-grown  dell  at  the 
entrance  of  Iron  Creek  Pass.  She  pushed  her 
fingers  through  her  fallen  hair,  and  idly  over  the 
shimmering  stuff  of  her  gown.  Far  above  her 
she  saw  waveringly  the  stars.  Finally  the  idea 
of  sleep  came  to  her,  just  as  the  idea  of  walking 
had  come  to  her  before.  She  sank  to  her  knees, 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  with  the  sigh  of 
a  tired  child,  she  pillowed  her  head  on  her  soft 
round  arm  and  closed  her  eyes. 


The    poor-wills    ceased    their   plaintive    cries. 
A  few  smaller  birds  chirped  drowsily.    Back  of 


254  STORIES  or  THE  WILD  LIFE 

the  eastern  hills  the  stars  became  a  little  dim 
mer,  and  the  soft  night  breeze,  which  had  been 
steadily  blowing  through  the  darkened  hours, 
sank  quietly  to  sleep.  The  subtle  magic  of  nat 
ure  began  to  sketch  in  the  picture  of  day, 
throwing  objects  forward  from  the  dull  back 
ground,  taking  them  bodily  out  of  the  blackness, 
as  though  creating  them  anew.  Fresh  life 
stirred  through  everything.  The  vault  of  heaven 
seemed  full  of  it,  and  all  the  ravines  and  by-ways 
caught  up  its  overflow  in  a  grand  chorus  of  praise 
to  the  new-whitening  morning. 

The  woman  stirred  drowsily  and  arose,  throw 
ing  back  her  heavy  hair  from  her  face.  The 
flush  of  sleep  still  dyed  her  cheek  a  rich  crim 
son,  which  came  and  went  slowly  in  the  light  of 
the  young  sun,  vying  in  depth  now  with  the  silk 
of  her  gown,  now  with  the  still  deeper  tones  of 
a  mountain  red-bird  which  splattered  into  rain 
bow  tints  the  waters  of  the  brook.  She  caught 
the  sound  of  the  stream,  and  went  to  it.  The  red- 
bird  retreated  circumspectly,  silently.  She  knelt 
at  the  banks  and  splashed  the  icy  water  over  her 
face  and  throat,  another  red-bird,  another  wild 
thing  pulsing  and  palpitating  with  life.  Then 
she  arose  to  the  full  height  of  her  splendid  body 
and  looked  abroad. 


THE   GIEL   IN   RED  255 

The  morning  swept  through  her  like  a  river  and 
left  her  clean.  In  the  eye  of  nature  and  before 
the  presence  of  nature's  innumerable  creatures 
she  stood  as  innocent  as  they.  She  had  entered 
into  noisome  places,  but  so  had  the  marsh-hawk 
poising  grandly  on  motionless  wing  there  above. 
She  had  scrambled  in  the  mire,  and  she  was  ruf 
fled  and  draggled  and  besmirched;  so  likewise 
had  been  the  silent  flame-bird  in  the  thicket,  but 
he  had  washed  clean  his  plumes  and  was  now 
singing  the  universal  hymn  from  the  nearest 
bush-top.  The  woman  drew  her  lungs  full  of 
the  morning.  She  stretched  slowly,  lazily,  her 
muscles  one  by  one,  and  stood  taller  and  freer  for 
the  act.  The  debauch  of  the  last  night,  the  de 
bauches  of  other  and  worse  nights,  the  acid-like 
corrosion  of  that  vulgarity  which  is  more  subtle 
than  sin  even,  all  these  things  faded  into  a  past 
that  was  dead  and  gone  and  buried  forever.  The 
present  alone  was  important,  and  the  present 
brought  her,  innocent,  before  an  innocent  nature. 
As  she  stood  there  dewy-eyed,  wistful,  glowing, 
with  loosened  hair,  the  grasses  clinging  to  her, 
and  the  dew,  she  looked  like  a  wide-eyed  child- 
angel  newly  come  to  earth.  To  her  the  morning 
was  great  and  broad,  like  a  dream  to  be  dreamed 
and  awakened  from,  something  unreal  and  eva- 


256  STORIES   OF  THE   WILD   LITE 

nescent  which  would  go.  Her  heart  unfolded  to 
its  influence,  and  she  felt  within  her  that  tender 
ness  for  the  beautiful  which  is  nearest  akin  to 
holy  tears. 

As  she  stood  thus,  musing,  it  seemed  natural 
that  a  human  figure  should  enter  and  become 
part  of  the  dream.  It  seemed  natural  that  it 
should  be  a  man,  and  young;  that  he  should  be 
handsome  and  bold.  It  seemed  natural  that  he 
should  rein  in  his  horse  at  the  sight  of  her.  So 
inevitable  was  it  all,  so  much  in  keeping  with  the 
soft  sky,  the  brooding  shadow  of  the  mountain, 
the  squirrel  noises,  and  the  day,  that  she  stood 
there  motionless,  making  no  sign,  looking  up  at 
him  with  parted  lips,  saying  nothing.  He  was 
only  a  fraction,  a  small  fraction,  of  all  the  rest. 
His  fine  brown  eyes,  the  curl  of  his  long  hair,  the 
bronze  of  his  features  mattered  no  more  to  her 
than  the  play  of  the  sunlight  on  Harney. 

Then  he  spurred  his  horse  forward,  and  some 
thing  in  her  seemed  to  snap.  From  the  dream- 
present  the  woman  was  thrust  roughly  back  into 
her  past.  The  sunlight  faded  away  before  her 
eyes,  oozing  from  the  air  in  drop  after  drop  of 
golden  splendour,  the  songs  of  the  birds  died,  the 
murmuring  of  the  brook  became  an  angry  brawl 
that  accused  the  world  of  wickedness.  The 


THE   GIRL   IN   RED  257 

morning  fled.  From  a  distance,  far  away,  far 
ther  than  Harney,  farther  than  the  sky,  the 
stranger's  brown  eyes  looked  pityingly.  Her 
sin  was  no  longer  animal.  It  had  touched  her 
soul.  Instead  of  an  incident  it  had  become  a 
condition  which  hemmed  her  in,  from  which  she 
could  not  escape.  Suddenly  she  saw  the  differ 
ence.  She  dwelt  in  darkness;  he,  with  his  clear 
soul,  dwelt  in  light.  She  threw  herself  face 
downward  on  the  earth,  weeping  and  clutching 
the  grass  in  the  agony  of  her  sin. 

Then  a  new  sound  smote  the  air.  She  sat  up 
right  and  listened. 

Around  the  bend  she  heard  a  high-pitched 
voice  declaiming  in  measured  tones. 

'Thy  kingdom  is  an  everlasting  kingdom, 
and  Thy  dominion  endureth  throughout  all  gen 
erations,'  "  the  voice  chanted. 

'The  Lord  upholdeth  all  that  fall,  and  rais- 
eth  all  that  he  bowed  down.' ' 

The  speaker  strode  in  sight.  He  was  one  of 
the  old-fashioned  itinerant  preachers  occasionally 
seen  in  the  Hills,  filled  with  fanatic  enthusiasm, 
journeying  from  place  to  place  on  foot,  exhort 
ing  by  the  fear  of  hell  fire  rather  than  by  the 
hope  of  heaven's  bliss,  half -crazy,  half -inspired, 
wholly  in  earnest.  His  form  was  gaunt.  He 


258  STOEIES   OF  THE   WILD   LIFE 

was  clad  in  a  shiny  black  coat  buttoned  closely, 
and  his  shoes  showed  dusty  and  huge  beneath  his 
carefully  turned-up  trousers.  A  beaver  of  an 
cient  pattern  was  pushed  far  back  from  his  nar 
row  forehead,  and  from  beneath  it  flashed  vividly 
his  fierce  hawk-eyes.  Over  his  shoulder,  sus 
pended  from  a  cane,  was  a  carpet-bag.  He 
stepped  eagerly  forward  with  an  immense  excess 
of  nervous  force  that  carried  him  rapidly  on. 
Nothing  more  out  of  place  could  be  imagined 
than  this  comical  figure  against  the  simplicity  of 
the  hills.  Yet  for  that  very  reason  he  was  the 
more  grateful  to  the  woman's  perturbed  soul. 
She  listened  eagerly  for  his  next  words. 

He  strode  fiercely  across  the  stones  of  the  little 
ford,  declaiming  with  energy,  with  triumph: 

"  'The  eyes  of  all  wait  upon  Thee,  and  Thou 
givest  them  their  meat  in  due  season. 

'Thou  openest  Thine  hand,  and  satisfieth  the 
desire  of  every  living  thing. 

'The  Lord  is  righteous  in  all  His  ways,  and 
holy  in  all  His  works. 

'The  Lord  is  nigh  unto  all  them  that  call 
upon  Him,  to  all  that  call  upon  Him  in  truth. 

"  'He  will  fulfil  the  desire  of  all  that  fear 
Him:  He  also  will  hear  their  cry  and  save 
them.'  " 


THE   GIRL   IN    RED  259 

Anne  saw  but  two  tilings  plainly  in  all  the 
world — the  clear-eyed  stranger  like  a  god;  this 
fiery  old  man  who  spoke  words  containing 
strange,  though  vague,  intimations  of  comfort. 
From  the  agony  of  her  soul  but  one  thought 
leaped  forth — to  make  the  comfort  real,  to  find 
out  how  to  raise  herself  from  her  sin,  to  become 
worthy  of  the  goodness  which  she  had  that  morn 
ing  for  the  first  time  clearly  seen.  She  sprang 
forward  and  seized  the  preacher's  arm.  Inter 
rupted  in  his  ecstasy,  he  rolled  his  eyes  down  on 
her  but  half  comprehending. 

"How?  How?"  she  gasped.  "Help  me! 
What  must  I  do?" 

She  held  out  her  empty  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  appeal.  The  old  man's  mind  still  burned 
with  the  fever  of  his  fanatical  inspiration.  He 
hardly  saw  her,  and  did  not  understand  all 
the  import  of  her  words.  He  looked  at  her 
vacantly,  and  caught  sight  of  her  outstretched 
hands. 

'  'And  to  work  with  your  hands  as  we  com 
mand  you,'  "  he  quoted  vaguely,  then  shook  him 
self  free  of  her  detaining  grasp  and  marched 
grandly  on,  rolling  out  the  mighty  syllables  of 
the  psalms. 

"To  work  with  my  hands;  to  work  with  my 


260  STORIES   OF   THE   WILD   LIFE 

hands,"  the  woman  repeated  looking  at  her  out 
spread  palms.     "Yes,  that  is  it!"  she  said,  slowly. 


Anne  Bingham  washed  dishes  at  the  Prairie 
Dog  Hotel  for  a  week.  The  first  day  was  one 
of  visions;  the  second  one  of  irksomeness;  the 
third  one  of  wearisome  monotony.  The  first  was 
as  long  as  it  takes  to  pass  from  one  shore  to  the 
other  of  the  great  dream-sea;  the  second  was  an 
age;  the  third  an  eternity.  The  first  was  rose- 
hued;  the  second  was  dull;  the  third  was  filled 
with  the  grayness  that  blurs  activity  turned  to 
mechanical  action. 

And  on  the  eighth  day  occurred  the  monthly 
pay-day  dance  of  the  Last  Chance  mine.  All 
the  men  were  drunk,  all  the  women  were  drunker, 
but  drunkest  of  all  was  the  undoubted  favourite 
of  the  company,  Bismarck  Anne.  Two  men 
standing  by  the  door  saw  nothing  remarkable 
about  that — it  had  happened  the  last  week.  But 
in  that  time  Bismarck  Anne  had  had  her  chance, 
she  had  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  the  Tree,  and  so 
now  was  in  mortal  sin. 

THE   END 


IflBE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  T. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


1961 

APR  2  6 196 


MAR  2  2 1973 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
L06AI4GELES 


,..U.£.5P.U.IHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  950  056     2 


.. 

